


Merde

by leere



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Accidental Voyeurism, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Coming Out, Confusion, Depression, Dubious Consent, First Time, Ghosts, Honda Civic Tour, Hurt/Comfort, Lies, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Misunderstandings, Nintendo Fusion Tour, Prostitution, Serial Killers, Sex Tapes, Sexuality Crisis, Smut, Summer of Like, Threesome - M/M/M, Underage Sex, Voyeurism, dares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/pseuds/leere
Summary: All my unfinished bandom fics. There's a lot.





	1. Mikeysexual

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in bandom for nearly four years, and I've written nearly two hundred thousand words of bandom fic during that time. Here's all the ideas that never got finished, and never will. They're mostly unchanged from how they were written then, but I did a little bit of cleaning up so they're at least coherent. I unfortunately tend to write each important scene individually, as well as scenes I just want to get written, and then piece those scenes together in the finished product, rather than just write one cohesive narrative in linear form, so a lot of these are fragments. Hopefully they're entertaining fragments lmao. Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Because someone asked, I'd like to mention all of these ideas are totally up for grabs! If you wanna continue where I left off, or completely reinvent my idea, I totally welcome you to, as long as you gift it to me so I can read it :D Thanks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not gay," Pete said sharply, for the millionth time that week, "I'm Mikeysexual. There's a fucking difference."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. I'd wanted to write Petekey for a long time, even though I'm not a huge shipper, and I also wanted to write a fic where Patrick was Pete's gay roommate. When I first wrote it (around March 2015ish, so when I was fourteen) I got a little stereotypical with his portrayal, but I tried to tone that shit down a bit while editing to post it right now, though I didn't want to change it too much from its original form. Goddamn, though, I wrote his dialogue so rigidly? Did I think gay men talked like pretentious robots? I don't know. I was problematic. Probably why this never got finished. Hard to write a story where a main character is a robot and a stereotype. Ugh. Cool to think I've learned from it, though.
> 
> Warning: there's a promiscuous character (it's Patrick) in this who's an alcoholic and makes bad choices. No smut, but adult situations and themes, I guess.

**(This was literally the beginning of the fic.)**

"Ashlee dumped me again," Pete said conversationally, trying to hide the hurt in his voice. He reached for the salt. "She said she was tired of my bullshit."

"Well, I don't blame her. I'm tired of yours," Patrick replied, lips pursed, clearly disinterested. He speared a piece of salad on his fork and inspected it. Then he put his fork down. "Damn. I hate salad."

"Aren't you dieting?"

Patrick shrugged. "Dieting and dying. Healthiness sucks."

Pete frowned down at his own sad bowl of ramen.

* * *

**(This was supposed to be an introduction of Patrick's character and his role in the story.)**

Pete sighed. Patrick was great, Pete loved Patrick in a brotherly way, but he was obnoxiously open about his sexual escapades. Sometimes it was funny, but other times it had Pete gagging, like when Patrick told him, in graphic detail, about his saucy, hot one night stand with the latest pretty boy in town. Pete knew it was all a front; Patrick did like dick, yeah, but the flamboyant personality and the slutty habits were hiding something.

Pete worried about him sometimes. Most of the time, Patrick was fine; he'd smile and laugh and flirt and drink more alcohol than his little body could probably handle, and he'd go home with some nice guy with cool hair, and he'd come home seemingly content, but other times, Pete saw it when he threw back a shot of whiskey and stared down at the glass, the regrets of a dark past Pete almost wished he knew about reflecting back at him. He saw it often, but when he'd once tried to ask him about it, said, "Patrick, what happened?" Patrick had been silent - Patrick was never silent - and finally, he said, "A lot of shit. I don't wanna talk about it." Pete hadn't asked again, because Patrick was open about just about everything. If he had one secret, well, Pete could let him have it.

* * *

**(Skipped a bit here - Pete meeting Mikey. Kinda important bit. I was more excited about Patrick's role in this as comic relief than about the actual romantic pairing, so I wrote all his scenes first. Oops.)**

"Trick. Hey, Trick," Pete called from his place on the couch.

Patrick came out of his room, pursing his lips and buttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. "What."

"I met a guy. I need advice."

Patrick glanced up, quirking a knowing eyebrow. He smirked a little, adjusted his fedora, and sat down across from Pete. "Ah, yes," he said wisely, " _boy_ problems. Do tell."

"His name's Mikey. He works at Starbucks, and he's kind of beautiful. I'm going to go see him later today."

Patrick studied Pete, the prominent arch of one blonde eyebrow high on his forehead. He waved a hand. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. What the hell are you wearing?"

Pete glanced down at himself; baggy grey sweats, one of Patrick's pink polo shirts, and red flip flops. "Well. I'm gonna change before I go."

"You better. Don't you dare leave this house in those clothes, especially to go see a guy."

Pete put his hands up, feeling attacked. "I'll put on something decent, I swear."

Patrick made a face. "I find it hard to believe you. You haven't left the house in weeks, and when you do, you don't bother with your looks at all. I feel guilty for letting you leave like that."

"I got dressed yesterday for Starbucks. Thank God I did - that's when I met Mikey."

"What? Excuse me, you met him yesterday?"

* * *

**(This was just a bonding moment between P &P, but I thought it was so funny, I was so proud of it, I don't even know? Had to include it.)**

"I'm a musically inclined homosexual with exquisite taste in men, and my fashion sense is top notch," Patrick deadpanned.

It took two seconds, and then they were both guffawing.

* * *

  **(This was gonna be a plot point, but then it didn't go anywhere lmao.)**

Pete's seated on the couch watching America's Top Model when Patrick walks in. He glances up, and Patrick's pushing his sunglasses up onto his head, coming to stand in front of Pete with his hands on his hips. "I need your help."

"Last time you said that, I ended up in one of those mankini things at a gay strip club in Florida," Pete says, leaning over to see passed Patrick. "Can you move? I can't see the TV."

* * *

**(As I said - I used** **to be pretty gross about my portrayal of, ahem, liberated gay men. Projected that onto poor Patrick in a few of my fics, especially this one. Here I decided he did porn videos on the side??? I really don't know. This fic might've been my baby, but it's a hot mess haha. I just thought this bit would be funny.)**

Pete's eyes opened when he heard the click of heels approaching.

"Pete," Patrick said from the doorway.

Pete squeezed his eyes shut. "What?"

"I, um."

"What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy moping?"

"Yes, I can see that, but I've got bigger problems."

Pete sat up and turned to look at him. Patrick was in a skimpy maid outfit; panties, high heels, stockings, and all. "What-?"

"I got something stuck," Patrick said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Can you drive me to the ER, please?"

"Are you serious - dude, again?"

"I was making a video and then I got it stuck," Patrick pouted, lips shiny with what looked like lip gloss.

"Why are you so fucking _gay_ ," Pete groaned, annoyed, but got up anyway. "You wanna get dressed before we go?"

* * *

**(This was from a scene where all the guys have dinner and Patrick meets Mikey for the first time.)**  

Patrick regarded Mikey coldly. Then he said, "So you're the one who turned my best friend gay."

"Patrick," Pete said, nervously laughing, "leave Mikey alone."

Patrick looked Mikey up and down a few more times, then grabbed both of his hands and threaded their fingers. "Michael James Way, I've been trying to convince Pete he was gay since I met him when I was in middle school. Thank you so, so much."

Mikey laughed, awkwardly letting go of Patrick's fingers and smiling down at him. "You're, um. Welcome?"

"Mmm." Patrick hummed, stepping back to look the couple up and down. He looked at Mikey again. "Your legs are longer than Pete is tall, but you two look good together."

"Thanks?"

* * *

**(Scene during the dinner.)**

"Have you two had sex yet?"

Mikey gagged on steak, and Pete nearly spit his wine out. He swallowed hurriedly, before gawking at his roommate. "Patrick!"

Patrick took an innocent sip of champagne. "Just curious. You did use protection, didn't you? Lube and condoms are essential between two inexperie-"

"Patrick," Pete said sternly.

* * *

**(This was a scene where they were at a party or a club, I dunno.)**

From his place on Gabe's lap, Patrick shook his head and threw back his glass. "Crazy ass kids."

"That's Patrick's current boytoy," Pete murmured in Mikey's ear, leaning heavily onto him. "Gabe Saporta. His anaconda only wants some 'cause Patrick's got buns...hun."

"He's, um. Pretty tall." Mikey was watching the stupidly-tiny and stupidly-drunk Patrick crawl into Gabe's lap, catching his mouth in a hot, filthy kiss that had some of Gabe's friends cat calling and some of them excusing themselves from the table, discomfort or disgust on their faces.

"Yeah, well. Tall guys usually have huge dicks, and Patrick likes 'em big. He's a size queen. Yanno?"

Mikey barked out a laugh, wrapping an arm around Pete, and Pete leaned into him even more, smiling happily.

* * *

**(This was. Just a scene. Really, really wanted to exaggerate "hey look I made Patrick a slut!" I guess. I don't know. Sigh.)**

"So Joe says, 'Yeah, no shit,'" Pete told Mikey, twisting his key into his door, "and I'm like, 'Okay, he's being an asshole, and - oh, Jesus fucking Christ!"

All he sees is a very naked Patrick, on top of a very naked other guy. He screeches and covers his eyes. "Patrick, dude, c'mon."

The apparently-drunk Patrick giggled, leaning heavily into his affair. "Whoopsie."

"Let us finish, would ya?" the guy asked Pete, hands coming to rest on Patrick's hips.

"Jesus Christ," Pete said again, closing the door.

* * *

**(Me trying to be funny...)**

"So Gabe and I were fucking-" Patrick started.

"Woah, woah, dude, hey! TMI!"

"You're gay, hun. I figured a little anal wouldn't bug you too much."

"I'm bisexual, actually. Really, I'm Mikeysexual. But, yeah, okay, just be a little less blunt. Please."

Patrick fixed him with a hard stare. Then he pointedly said, "Gabe and I were engaging in intercourse."

"What the - no. Just. Get to the point."

* * *

  **(Andy was gonna be a major character, but this was his only scene that I bothered to write... and, again, apologies for Patrick's portrayal. Jeez. Can we doxx 2015 me.)**

Pete glanced up at the knock on the front door. He went over, peeking cautiously through the peephole. Blue uniform. Fuck.

He opened the door, greeted by the sight of a small but muscular man in a police uniform, tattoos creeping up his neck. Hurley, his label said. He had an arm around Patrick's waist. The blonde looked worse for wear, hat and glasses skewed and clothes messy.

Hurley started, "Mr-" but Pete unintentionally interrupted him. "Christ, Patrick, did you finally manage to pick up a cop?"

Patrick grinned, and Hurley scowled at him. "He didn't pick me up, I'm just here to drop him off. He was being a public nuance."

"'Trick, what'd I tell you about waving your toys in people's faces to scare them? It's not cool, man."

"He wasn't - Jesus," Hurley said. "Okay, listen, he came out of a gay bar, went over to the Kmart across the street, and proceeded to offer sex to every male he came across. Someone called me and I came out and he went without resisting, but in the car, he hit on me the entire drive - you wanna know what he said to me?"

"Do I wanna know?"

Hurley fixed him with a glare. "He asked me if I wanted to shove my baton up his ass. And then he started singing Mrs. Officer by Lil Wayne."

"I changed the lyrics though," Patrick mumbled.

* * *

**(Really glad I never posted this - well, prior to now. I clearly didn't understand how to write such a complex character. Like, I set it up, then didn't deliver. Eugh.)**

"So you and I have been together for a year in a few days," Mikey started, "and Patrick's been through, what, eight guys this year? Alone?"

"He's high maintenence, I tell you."

Mikey laughed. "No, really, he's on guy number eight now, right?"

Pete ticked them off on his fingers. "Travie, Joe, Bill, Bob, Ray, Brendon, Frank, and Gabe, right?"

Mikey frowned. "Well shit."

* * *

**(This is the only scene in this I even like now tbfh. I began to explore Patrick's self-destruction, and I wish I got more in depth with it. I barely scraped the surface. I just love their interactions here, I dunno.)**

"I'm not gay, I'm Mikeysexual," Pete said, hopping up on the counter to glare down at Patrick. "There's a difference. I don't like dick, I like Mikey's dick."

"You like dick as much as Gabe Saporta, and he sucked mine last night," Patrick said, grabbing at the vodka half-empty bottle beside Pete and uncorking it. He downed most of what was left of it and then added, "Admit it, hun. You're almost as gay as me."

"I don't think that's possible, _hun_ ," Pete retorted, sharply, snatching the liquor from Patrick's hands and throwing back the very last of it. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. "At least I'm not on a different dick every night."

"Fuck you, I live how I wanna live." Patrick grabbed the bottle back and frowned down to see it was empty. He sighed, as over-dramatic as ever, and tossed it into the sink. Pete pursed his lips at the four other bottles it landed on and watched Patrick go to the fridge for another.

"You shouldn't drink so much," Pete shook his head when Patrick gulped down half of this new one. "It can't be healthy. You're five feet tall. And, you know, height aside, your liver is gonna feel that shit when you're fifty."

"Shut up," Patrick mumbled.

Pete shook his head again. "I'm leaving. I better not come home to you passed out on the floor again, and don't fuck Gabe on my bed. Last time my pillows were soaked with lube. It was disgusting."

Patrick slumped down onto the floor, bringing his knees to his chest and taking a big, long drink. "Gabe dumped me on Tuesday. Said he started dating that kid William Beckett I fucked last year. Shame, too. He was funny and cool. Better in bed than a lot of the guys I've been with."

Pete vaguely remembered him. Pretty face, long brown hair, longish limbs and sharp angles. Laughing - giggling - drunkenly into Patrick's neck while Patrick, the slutty seductress, muttered a litany of alcohol-tinged sweet nothings in his ear.

"I'm sorry," Pete said awkwardly, kicking his feet a little.

Patrick shrugged. "Whatever."

* * *

  **(This is where shit got weird - I decided I wanted Pete to die in this. So this is where I started foreshadowing, but I disguised it as a cute little moment. They were looking at stars here. Like??)**

"Where do you think you go when you die?"

"Heaven or hell," Mikey said. "One or the other."

"Purgatory," Patrick said. "We're all doomed to wander."

"I think you go to Pluto," Pete grinned.

"What?" Mikey and Patrick both said.

"Like, the planet."

"No, Mickey's dog," Patrick retorted

"Shut up," Pete told him, fondly.

"Why Pluto?" Mikey asked.

Pete shrugged. "Why not Pluto?"

* * *

**(This was, like??? After Pete's death??? I don't even know how I intended to kill him off, I think it was a car accident or something. But, I dunno. Ridiculous, but I was kinda onto something?? It could've worked, random as it seems. It just, like, didn't. Also gotta clarify; apparently I decided Pete & Mikey went to school together, but hadn't seen each other since. That's relevant to this next bit. Also I paired up Mikey & Patrick? Ugh.)**

Patrick was sitting on the curb, head in his hands.

"Hey," Mikey said softly, sitting down next to him. "It's, uh. Mikey."

Patrick didn't lift his head, but he grunted to acknowledge him.

"I know this is hard," Mikey went on awkwardly, studying his feet. "Pete's my - he was my boyfriend, you know, and I love him a lot and I know how much you do, too, and that you guys were best friends, and, um." He frowned at Patrick, who had lifted his head. He had tears streaming down his cheeks, but his eyes were focused on the gas station across the street, and though his bottom lip was trembling, his face was otherwise void of emotion.

"I know you," he said, sounding bitter and tear-choked. "I know you, man. You were all Pete cared about. All he talked about. All he - all he loved. You know?"

Mikey sat silent, watching Patrick watch a bird fly by. The blonde sighed and looked at his hands, which were fumbling with a necklace chain. It looked familiar.

"My ex gave me this," Patrick said, lifting the necklace. "Said it was the promise ring he couldn't afford." Patrick laughed, sounding a little hysterical. "I told him to take twenty-five cents to one of those candy dispensers and get one of those cheap little rings. I said that was good enough for me. But no, he went to his old friend Pete and bought this shitty little chain off him for five bucks. Once he left me, maybe three and a half months later, I moved in with Pete after I saw him in a newspaper - had no idea that he was the same guy. He saw me wearing the chain but never connected the dots, and the other day, you know, just - just before, he was drunk, and I wasn't, for fucking once, and he told me what this damn thing meant to him. I wanted to give it back, because, really, it was nothing but bad memories for me, but it meant a lot to him. But then I kept forgetting, and now - too late. You know?"

Mikey considered that, then bluntly asked, "What's it mean to him?"

Patrick smiled again, looking sadder than ever. "You."

Mikey squinted at him. "Huh?"

"When you two were in high school, you dropped that on the floor, and he took it. Stole it, I guess. Fucking creep." Patrick laughed, tearfully. He sobered again and sniffled. "He liked you, even back then. Kept it 'till six years back, as a reminder of you." Patrick started tearing up again; he wiped at them with the palm of his hand, something Mikey saw Pete do a thousand times, and his heart hurt. Patrick smiled sadly. "I loved him for years. Pete, I mean. It's cliche as hell, but it's true. You know what living with a guy you're in love with, but who doesn't care at all, for six fuckin' years is like? Hell. It's hell. Everyday he came home, blabbing about you, and I wasn't jealous, you're an awesome guy and you deserve him, and he deserves - deserved, he deserved you, but it still hurt me. He wondered why I slept around and drank - sex and alcohol are the ultimate novocaine. You know? I've never loved anyone else, to be perfectly honest. Not my parents, not any of my love affairs - I had a fucked up childhood. Made me the man I am today." Patrick shakes his head, attempting a bitter little smile. "I don't make sense, I'm sorry, I'm kind of debating jumping off that balcony right there."

Mikey sat silently.

"You don't talk much," Patrick said quietly. He snorted. "Exact opposite of Pete. He never shuts up, the fucker."

Patrick's mixing up past and present tense, but Mikey can respect that he's too frazzled for grammar.

"I don't know much about you, Mikeyway," Patrick said then, "but if you treated Pete well, then I'll love you almost as much he did."

"What was he anyway?" Mikey asked, suddenly, glancing at Patrick. "Sexuality-wise?"

"Mikeysexual," Patrick said instantly.

Mikey laughed.

Patrick raised his eyebrows at him. "I'm serious as shit, and also, you're laugh is nothing like your speaking voice, and it's mildly alarming."

"Mikeysexual," Mikey deadpanned.

"Uh huh. He insisted on that. It's probably in his will somewhere."

"Mikeysexual," Mikey mused, shaking his head. "That's funny."

"'I'm not gay,'" Patrick said, in his best attempt of a Pete voice, "'I'm Mikeysexual. There's a difference, okay?'"

Mikey laughed again, closer to a giggle than anything.

"Your laugh is cute," Patrick said, smiling up at Mikey. Not a genuine smile - it was flirty and they both knew it.

"Stop that," Mikey said, and Patrick instantly glanced away, looking mildly ashamed. "Pete would want you to take better care of yourself and stop with the sex. I'm not gonna fuck you, no matter how persuasive or seductive or whatever you are. I'm gonna take care of myself, and you. We're gonna be okay."

"Was Pete a little spoon?" Patrick asked suddenly.

"Yeah," Mikey answered, after a long pause.

"I'll be his replacement," Patrick offered softly.

Mikey looked at him.

"He said you love cuddling. He'd tell me about you, not so much the sex, but the after bullshit, or whatever. I'd like that. If you need a replacement little spoon, you know?"

Mikey thought about that, silent for quite a few moments, then said, "Okay. Yeah. Replacement little spoon."

Patrick smiled, Mikey tried to, and probably, somewhere, on fucking Pluto or something, Pete was grinning and saying, "Look who's Mikeysexual now, you little shit."


	2. My Ghost (Where'd You Go?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casper AU. Pete is a ghost. When the odd family of sixteen year old Patrick, his weird "uncle" Gerard, Gerard's punk boyfriend Frank, and Gerard's weirder brother Mikey move into the house Pete haunts, things get interesting when he forms a bond with the youngest member of the household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This makes no fucking sense, but I'm attached to it. Can't just delete it haha. It was one of the first bandom fics I ever wrote. This actually came to be from this dumbass post on Tumblr that was like, "What if you fucked an invisible person and someone walked in and just saw your asshole widening around nothing" or some disgusting shit like that, and I must've been watching Caspar at the time I saw the post, 'cause this somehow ended up happening. Ugh. Update: found the post! [Woo.](http://saportuh.tumblr.com/post/121338243096/croptop2014-j5h-imagine-having-sex-with-a)
> 
> I obsessed over this for a while, 'cause I have a weird love for the tragedy behind the concept of ghosts. I didn't incorporate the loneliness I wanted into this, it's mostly smut and humor, but whatever. Title's from the Halsey song, btw. Badlands wasn't even out when I wrote this (which was around August 2014, I think). Damn.
> 
> For reference, Pete's 21 here, Patrick's 16, Gerard's 23, Frank's 19, and Mikey's 20. There's some fairly graphic smut involving the sixteen-year-old Patrick, so don't read if you're not about that. (Btw, when I wrote this, the Patrick in this fic was three years older than I was. Now I'm a year older than he is here. Ha.)

**(No, I don't know why Patrick lives with Gerard. I'd clarify that if I bothered to actually write this well, but I didn't, so y'all are stuck with this lazy mess. This also starts with a dinner conversation - as many of my fics do? Huh.)**

"It's fine if you're gay, Patrick," Gerard said without bothering to look up from the comic book he was engrossed in. "I'm gay, Frank's gay. We won't care if you're gay."

"I'm not gay," Frank called indignantly from the kitchen. He came to stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "I just kind of - dick. You know?"

Patrick chewed on his lip, eyes flitting between Frank and his raised eyebrows and Gerard and his obvious disinterest. "Yeah, well, I'm straight, okay?"

"Denial," Frank hummed, heading back into the kitchen. "Not just a river in Egypt, dude."

"Fuck you, Frank, I'm seriously not gay!"

Mikey watched everything with calculating eyes, then threw his two cents in and said, "Maybe you need more experience before you can decide your sexual preferences."

Patrick's eyes narrowed - _Damn you, MikeyWay, and damn your stupid quiet wisdom_ \- and Frank guffawed. "Damn, Mikey just outted you as a virgin, 'Rick!"

Patrick was a virgin, yeah, but the guys didn't have to point it out. He stood up abruptly. "Goddamnit, that's my personal, private information, and if I don't feel comfortable sharing it with you assholes, then I really shouldn't have to."

"This is what you get for being a squirt in a house of asshole twenty year olds," Gerard said unsympathetically.

"Frank's only an inch taller than me! And I'm still growing!"

Gerard hummed. "Kid, I saw you three years ago, and you were the same height then as you are now."

"Fuck you, Gerard."

"Sorry, nope, incest is gross." Gerard winked at Mikey, who looked as blank as ever as he took another bite of food.

* * *

**(So, as I often do, kinda went straight to the smut. Didn't even bother to write how Patrick and Pete met in this. I think I had a Caspar-esque meeting planned; Patrick went into his room, Pete scared the fuck outta him, but then they made friends? Idfk.)**

"Do you - do you have a dick?" And, shit, that was a stupid question to ask, but Patrick was curious.

Pete looked confused for a moment, then laughed. "Yeah, 'course I do. S'right here." He reached down and cupped his junk, jutting his hips into his hand. He winked at Patrick. "Think it works, too."

"Could - could we - you know?"

"My penis is translucent. So."

"But I can touch you. I feel you." Patrick reached out and touched Pete's arm to demonstrate, felt the leather of his jacket, though his fingers seemingly disappeared through his clothes. "So why-"

* * *

**(This was where the angst was gonna be, but I lost interest. Sigh.)**

"I died on the night of my twenty first birthday," Pete said, letting out a shaky breath. "I was crazy drunk. Think I had sex more than five times that night." At Patrick's horrified look, he added with a slight smirk, "Ghosts can't have STDs, don't worry. Anyway, I used to ride a motorcycle, 'cause I thought I was cool. I went to go home, but I crashed. Drove right into that big old tree out front. Died instantly. I've been here since, alone. A nice, older lady used to live here, so I started talking to her,, and we were friends for a while. Then somebody decided she was crazy and took her away, and everyone decided the house was haunted, and it's been empty since.

Pete sounded far off, and Patrick, disturbed but concerned, reached out to hold his hand. "Nobody will take me away, so don't worry about that."

* * *

**(I'm better about it lately, but the combination of my love of writing smut and my short attention span used to mean I always wrote the sex scenes in every fic first, and usually I'd lose interest after that. That's what happened here. Have some ghost man x human teenager porn. Ugh.)**

"This is, like. Illegal," Patrick gasped, shifting his hips when Pete's second finger slipped inside. "I'm sixteen. You're a pedophile."

"Age ain't nothin' but a number when you're a ghost," Pete said, laughing a little.

"The guys can't see you, right?" Patrick asked, reaching down to grab his cock and locking eyes with Pete.

"Nah," Pete said, licking his lips and watching Patrick touch himself with hungry eyes.

"So if they walked in, they'd see me getting fingered by air?"

"Basically."

Patrick considered that. Then: "Cool. Three, please."

Pete smiled. "Are we going there tonight?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess. C'mon."

* * *

**(I apparently decided ghost!Pete could always be physically felt by living people, he just avoided it, because physical touch was what activated his visibility. Like, he had to touch someone for them to be able to see him (and hear him, too). I dunno, I'm not sure what's going on, I wrote this when I was thirteen, alright?)**

It finally happened, after school on a Tuesday. Patrick told Gee he had homework, he'd be down in a few hours, and he went to his room and locked the door. Pete greeted him with kisses to his neck, a hug from the back, and moments later, Patrick was on his knees, his hand shoved between his thighs and his mouth occupied else where.

"Gonna fuck you so hard," Pete growled through clenched teeth, bucking into Patrick's mouth. "Y'know what, I can't wait. Turn around."

Patrick did, pulled away from Pete's ghostly boner and pulled his fingers out of himself to turn and get on his hands and knees. Pete exhaled and grabbed a hold of Patrick's hips. "Always so ready, huh, baby?"

"Uh huh," Patrick panted, pushing back impatiently. "C'mon, c'mon-"

"Yeah," Pete breathed, sinking inside slowly.

"Fucking hell," Patrick whispered. Getting fucked by a ghost. Hmm.

The door swung open, smacking the wall loudly, and Pete froze and turned to look. Patrick did too, craned his neck to see though his stomach plummeted.

Frank stood there, squinting at them. "Patrick, what the fucking fuck? Am I high or something?"

"Fuck," Pete said, looking down at where his dick disappeared into Patrick's ass. "Uh."

"Fuck," Patrick echoed. "Frank, uh."

Frank walked in, crouching and sticking his hand out. His hand met Pete's thigh, and he flew away, screeching. "What the fuck?"

"Um," Pete said helpfully. He released his death grip on Patrick's hip and waved. "Hi. I'm Pete. I'm dead, but I like to fuck Patrick sometimes."

Patrick slumped against the ground, unable to move much, feeling Pete's hard, ghostly erection in his ass and Frank's confused, sharp eyes on his face. "It's a long story," he mumbled, face blazing red. He shifted back and biting on his lip when Pete's cock brushed his prostate. His own hard-on became apparent again. Got a ghost dick in my ass and Uncle Frankie's right here. What the fuck?

"You. You like ghost dick?" Frank asked. He didn't even seem to notice the fact that he was standing by two guys, one that wasn't a human, mid-fuck. He was too busy staring at Pete in amazement.

Patrick grunted, feeling rooted by Pete's hands, which held his hips again. He felt vulnerable and open; Pete's dick twitched inside him, and Patrick wondered if he had some kind of voyeurism kink.

"That's hardcore," Frank whispered, poking at Pete's arm tattoos. "How could I not see him before?"

"I dunno, 'cause you're too busy fucking Gerard to notice me fucking my ghost boyfriend?" Patrick shot him a glare. "Can you get the fuck out of my room?"

"Alright, alright, Jesus," Frank said, standing up. "I'm gonna go take a cold shower, 'cause I must be pretty fucking fucked up right now. Fuck."


	3. Please Stand Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick's dating Eminem now, and, yeah, that's kind of crazy as fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh. One of my favorite bandom writers, Coricomile, wrote a fic called Six Minutes, You're On, about Eminem x Patrick, and I spent sixth grade aggressively obsessing over Eminem, and writing Wattpad fanfic about him, so I fucking loved it. And, uh. This happened, in August or September 2014, I'm thinking. All I know is it's intensely awkward to edit three years later lmao. Uh. Enjoy?
> 
> This is PG, btw. I ain't that nasty. Shit's implied near the end though. Ehhhhhh.

"So I'm kind of dating Eminem," Patrick said on the bus one day. He gets a dozen sets of eyes staring him down within five seconds. He looked at his hands. "Like, uh, yeah. The rapper Eminem. That guy."

"Dude," Joe said.

Pete grinned, looking a little too pleased with himself. "It's true. I totally set them up last month. Holy shit, this is awesome."

"You're dating Marshall Mathers," Marcus said, looking less than impressed.

Patrick blinked, the nodded. "Yeah."

The eyebrows of the sound guy, Carlos, were halfway up his forehead. "You're a guy. He's a guy."

Patrick shrugged dismissively. "I've never been opposed to guys, you know."

"But he's always been! He's Eminem! He's, like, one of the most famous homophobes of all time!"

"I don't know." Patrick shrugged again. "All I know is I'm dating him, and I'm really happy with him."

"Are you gonna, like, marry him one day? Maybe?" Joe sounded beyond excited. "Holy shit, you're dating Eminem. You need to let me meet him."

"I dunno about marrying him," Patrick said, frowning a little at the idea. "But for the time being, yeah, I'm dating him."

"Patrick Mathers," Pete said, then laughed. "Your initials would be better, at least. No more PMS - PMM. Patrick Martin Mathers. Kinda sounds cool."

Patrick didn't answer, because Marshall had just texted him: **Gonna be in chicago 4 a few days. Can i cum over.**

Patrick grinned hard, fingers flying as he answered, **Yeah you can! Look forward to seeing you :)**

"Ooh, are you texting him?" Pete peered over Patrick's shoulder, glanced over the conversation, then squealed. "Smiley face! That means he wants your ass! Wait, _you_ sent the smiley face. Oh. Sick, dude. You fucking pervert. "

"Pete, shut up," Patrick stood and went into his bunk, leaving Pete flailing about how happy they were going to be, and how cute they already were.

* * *

**(Patrick meeting Dr. Dre 'cause why the fuck not. Might as well pull Andre into this clusterfuck. Ugh.)**

"Yo, Dre," Marshall said, clapping the large guy facing the soundboard on the back. The guy turned, smiling at Marshall, then glanced at Patrick, his brows pulling together.

Patrick gaped a little, because holy shit, that was _Dr. Dre_. Founder of Beats (Patrick owned five pairs), former member of NWA (Patrick had never been a fan but he knew Straight Outta Compton by heart because of Pete and his love of old gansta rap), creator of Aftermath Records (which was a damn _empire_ ), not to mention he was a ridiculously talented producer. Patrick had met Jay-Z before, was sort of friends with him, and he was still starstruck.

Dre looked at Marshall, clearly confused.

"This is Patrick," Marshall said, getting a hand around Patrick's waist and pulling him in. "Patrick motherfuckin' Stump. He's a singer in a band, pretty big, but, we're, uh." Marshall nodded down to where he was holding Patrick.

Dre's eyebrows rose, and he looked Patrick over. "Damn, really?"

"Uh huh," Marshall said. He squinted at Dre. "Not good enough for you, huh, Andre? He's curvier than any bitch I've ever been with, and nicer, too!"

Dre laughed, and Patrick did, too, awkwardly. He nervously glanced at Marshall, who was smiling slightly down at him.

"Nah, he's fine, man, you do you." Dre stuck his hand out. "Nice to meet you, Patrick."

Patrick put his hand in his, intimidated, but determined to not play the frightened little girlfriend. He'd been expecting a formal handshake, but Dre pulled him into his chest and clapped him on the back. Patrick sputtered - bro hug, right, yeah - face to face with the man's very muscular chest. He backed away, nodding up at him, fixing his hat and regaining his composure. "Pleasure's all, uh, it's all mine, sir."

"Sir," Marshall said, then broke into obnoxious laughter. "Sir, holy shit, you just fuckin' called him sir-"

Patrick flushed. This was not his element at all. Fuck. "I'm sorry, I don't - I'm just trying to be polite-"

"It's not like he's Elton, okay, it's just Dre. Chill out, man."

Patrick pressed his lips together, bothered by how amusing Marshall and Dre both seemed to find him.

* * *

**(This next bit is like the fluffiest thing I ever wrote. Why I decided Eminem x Patrick would be a fluffy pairing, I don't fucking know.)**

Marshall stole his fedora, plopping it down on his head and grinning. "Why the fuck do you always wear goofy ass hats like this? Kangos, man. Kangos are the shit."

Patrick crossed his arms and frowned. "Well, I used to wear trucker hats, baseball caps, shit like that. You've seen how I used to dress, you know what I'm talking about. Fedoras are classier, I guess?"

"Classy," Marshall scoffed. He flailed when Patrick took the hat back. "What the fuck, gimme it back!"

"It's mine," Patrick said, chuckling when Marshall grabbed for it back.

"I wanna wear it," Marshall said, crossing his arms and pouting.

"You're ten times worse than Pete," Patrick said, "and that's literally impossible." He handed the hat back anyway.

Marshall beamed when the fedora was set on his head.

* * *

**(THIS STARTS TO GET HEATED AND I REGRET IT BUT I STOPPED BEFORE IT GOT HOT & HEAVY BECAUSE I WAS EMBARRASSED I THINK HAH)**

"So," Patrick said, scooting a little closer to Marshall. Marshall turned wide eyes on him. Patrick swallowed down his fear and swung a leg over Marshall's legs, straddling him. Marshall's mouth opened, and Patrick took the opportunity to kiss him hard. It took him ten seconds to realize Marshall wasn't kissing back. He pulled back, frowned down at him. "What's wrong?"

Marshall hesitated.

"Seriously, what?"

"I've never done this with a guy," Marshall said slowly, shifting with Patrick on top of him. "I'm, uh. Pretty damn straight. Always have been. With you, uh, I dunno. You're different."

"Don't call me feminine or any of that shit. I have a dick, I'm a dude, don't try to pretend I'm not."

"No, nah, yeah, I know, I just, you know, I'm not used to it, you know what I'm saying?"

Patrick blinked at him. "How far have you gone with a guy?"

Marshall flushed. "Um, like, I dunno, I've gotten really high and kissed a few guys. With tongue. Some, uh, y'know. Grinding. X does that to you."

"Anything with dicks?"

"Uh. Nah. No, I don't think so. Where I'm from, that shit don't fly. Fucking around is one thing, but if you get weird, you're gonna get fucked up, you know?"

Patrick exhaled. He'd have to work slowly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Do you want me to blow you?"

Marshall's eyebrows shoot up. "You're gonna, like - okay, yeah, a'ight, cool, go ahead."

Patrick slid off his lap, down to the ground between his legs. He tugged at Marshall's cargo shorts. "Off."

Marshall didn't have to be asked twice. "You've done this before?"

"A few times. You know my friend Pete? He and I were, like, an off and on thing for a while."

"Did you-?" Patrick looked up to see Marshall sticking a finger through the circle his thumb and pointer were forming.

Patrick rolled his eyes.

* * *

**(I wanted to write a scene where Patrick met Marshall's kids, and there was cuteness, but I started to write them fighting instead hahahah I live for the drama idk)**

"I ain't got time for that shit, man," Marshall says, frowning.

"Don't have," Patrick says quietly.

Marshall turns towards him slowly, eyes intense. "What'd you just say?"

"Don't have," Patrick mumbles, looking down. "You don't have time for that shit. Not ain't got. Don't have."

Patrick risks a glance up and Marshall's face is turning a little red. He's actually a little frightened to see Marshall's infamous temper bubbling up, for the first time, but he's dealt with Pete's freak-outs for years, so he keeps himself composed.

"Do you got a fucking problem with the way I talk?" Marshall says, coming over to stand over Patrick. He's a skinny guy, but he's five inches taller than Patrick, and Patrick knows he's got street cred, knows he can throw a punch and he can totally kick Patrick's ass. Patrick can fight himself, he grew up in Chicago, but he always tried to avoid confrontation.


	4. Dark and Lonely (I Need Somebody to Hold Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember this? I think I was just feeling angsty and wrote this to vent, with the intention of eventually inserting it into a full-length fic, but it ended up just being a sad little lone drabble. Eh. Wrote this around May 2015, I think. Ya know it's old 'cause I still wrote in past tense back then haha. 
> 
> Little bit of smut at the end. Title's from LDR. I've wanted to name a fic that for years.

"What do you want?" Patrick said lowly, glowering at the asshole on his stoop. "What the fuck do you _want_?"

Pete fell to his knees, looking up at Patrick with begging, teary eyes.

"What," Patrick repeated slowly, "do you want, Pete."

Pete stared up at Patrick, looking pathetic and miserable, his bottom lip trembling, and then he hung his head and choked out, '"I want you to want to be mine. That's all I want."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "You fucking blew it, Wentz. You're not getting me back. Fuck you, man." He went to slam the door, but Pete stuck his hand between it quickly. Patrick managed to stop the door before Pete was permanently unable to play bass ever again. "What the hell is wrong with you? Leave, before I call the goddamn cops."

"Babe, please," Pete pleaded, hugging on Patrick's leg. "I need you. I need you so bad. I miss you, I miss your smile and your voice and your bombtastic ass and your fantastic head-giving skills and your mouth and your kisses and your existence and everything, I miss everything. I miss making you scream in bed, I miss making you laugh in the bus, I miss your face when you're completely done with Dirty and I's shit, and your face when I'm blowing your fucking mind - I miss it all."

"Fuck you," Patrick said again, kicking Pete away. "Piece of shit."

He went to close the door again, but Pete lunged for his legs again, holding on for dear life. Patrick slammed the door into his ribs, then opened it and glared down at Pete. He hated him, but he refused to hurt him. "I want to marry you!" Pete sobbed. "I'll be Pete Stump, or you can be Patrick Wentz, it doesn't really matter, or we can do that hyphenated shit with both names. If I could, I would - I would fucking bare your children, babe, I swear to God - we'd make beautiful kids, huh? My color hair, but the softness of yours, the texture, maybe - your pretty bluish green eyes, huh, how about your musical ability? My way with words? My nose but your lips? They'd be beautiful."

"Pete," Patrick said, and now he sounded strained and desperate, not angry. "Pete, stop it."

"Baby, please."

"Pete. Pete, just go."

"Patrick," Pete sobbed, burying his face in Patrick's jeans.

"Pete." Patrick exhaled. What the hell was he even supposed to do?

"You're mine," Pete said quietly. "Those other bitches can't have you. You're mine."

"That's what this is about? Me and Gabe? That was one fucking time, okay, and you sleep around constantly, fucker!"

"You're mine," Pete repeated, voice heavy with tears. "Say it, please, I need to hear it."

"I haven't forgiven you, asshole. This isn't okay. I left you for a reason-"

"That's the problem. You left me, you promised you'd never leave." Then, inaudibly, like a small child: "You said you'd never leave."

"Pete, you fucked up everything, you-"

"Why does that matter? That's the past. The present is this; I love you more than anything. More than Metallica, more than Starbucks, more than '80s music, more than anything. I'll show you, I swear-"

"That's not enough. What you did, Pete, it's fucking terrible."

* * *

 

**(Fuck communication - they fucked it better! Here's some smut!)**

Later, when Pete is biting him everywhere, leaving marks everywhere, breathing 'mine' on every bruise, when he's fucking him and mumbling 'i love you' into his mouth with each thrust, when he's holding him tightly and whispering 'don't ever leave again, i'll never cheat again' - Patrick thinks he's forgiven him.

The next morning, when Pete sipped his coffee and poked at a bruise on Patrick's collarbone and said the 'm' word with a dazed, in-love smile, Patrick reflected the smile and answered, "Yeah. Yeah, yours. I'm yours. All yours."


	5. Watching You Two From the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, like, what he doesn't get, is why is Pete the one stuck in a damn closet when they're the ones having gay sex?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this late 2015 when I went through a phase where I was obsessed with Stumporta. Title's from da boyz. Issa smut. Voyeuristic smut. Have fun.

"Where the fuck is it?" Pete muttered, digging through Patrick's bag and glancing over his shoulder from time to time. He was trying to find his favorite hoodie - he needed it for an interview tomorrow, but Patrick had borrowed it last week and hadn't given it back, and now he couldn't fucking find it, and it wasn't like he could ask because Patrick was being a little shit lately. Pete hadn't gone through his shit like this in years, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and Pete missed his fucking hoodie, goddamnit.

"Fuck," he whispered, because shit, Patrick would be back at any given moment and he'd throw an absolute bitch fit over Pete digging around in his belongings.

Pete's head jerked up when he heard the slam of the bus door. Cursing to himself, he ran to the tiny closet and slid it shut just as he heard a familiar voice loudly say, "Hurry it up, _pichoncito_. We've got hours, but I wanna get this party started!"

 _Gabe!_ Pete squinted, peering through the wooden slats of the closet door and chewing on his lip. There was no escape, and Pete wasn't an idiot, he knew Gabe had brought someone back to the bus to fuck. He had his Sidekick, he could just sit back and text and try not to listen until they left, then resume his search for the hoodie, no big deal. The closet was pretty much empty, aside from some trash Pete couldn't see but touched when he felt around in the dark, so he could sit back comfortably for a while.

But then Gabe's partner answered, and Pete's heart stopped. "If you just insulted me in Spanish again, Gabe, I'm never getting you off again. You and Suarez talking shit about me in a language I can't understand is really shitty, man, fucking quit it with that shit."

Pete was still stuck on 'I'm never getting you off again' when they come in, Patrick wearing Pete's damn hoodie, just a bit too tight around his midsection (it was much too baggy on Pete, he should just give it to Patrick, but he was much too attached to the damn thing). Gabe's following him, and Patrick sat down on the bed while Gabe slid the door closed.

"We don't talk shit about you, chill," Gabe said, going over to drop to his knees in front of Patrick. With Patrick seated on the bed, Gabe only came up to his stomach - Pete's eyes widened and he pressed his face to the wooden slats, chewing anxiously on his lip. He knew what was going on, knew what was about to happen, and he was having mixed feelings about it. It'd hot, fuck yeah it'd be hot, but, like - what the fuck? This was some next level weird pornography shit. He felt like an absolute creep.

"We didn't talk shit about you, Patrick. We love you, you know that."

Then Patrick, in a sultry voice Pete had only ever dreamed about hearing, reached down to grab Gabe's chin, maybe touched his mouth, Pete couldn't see - and he said, "Then prove it."

* * *

 

( **Hot damn I skip around a lot. I think I was going for mutual blowjobs, then actual sex? I just skipped like...half of it. Psh.)**

Patrick's mouth had been the focus of Pete's wet dreams since they met, if he's entirely honest; never did he ever, ever imagine he'd get to see that mouth put to such a good use. Pete was fumbling with his belt before he could think better of it, eyes glued to the sight of Patrick going down on Gabe. He couldn't really see from his spot, could just see Patrick's head bobbing and Gabe, who was groaning and tugging Patrick's hair lightly. He could hear, though, heard the wet sound of Patrick sucking Gabe off, and finally, finally, because it was so hard to get his belt undone and his pants off silently, Pete was able to reach into his boxers and get a hand around his cock. He's rock hard, and he hisses at the first touch. Of course, Gabe and Patrick can't hear, too caught up in each other.

"Get the fuck up here before I lose it," Gabe said through gritted teeth. "'Cause I want you to ride me."

"Oh, Jesus," Patrick said, which almost made Pete laugh. "That's a - bit much, Gabe."

Gabe laid back, grinning. He put his hands behind his head and jutted his hips up. "Climb aboard."

* * *

 

**(Why did I stop there?!?! Damn 2015!me! Did Patrick ride Gabe? Did he refuse? Was it steaming hot? Who fucking knows, 'cause I suck.)**

The next day, Gabe and Patrick sat a little too close to each other on the bus. 'A little' meaning Patrick was half in Gabe's lap. Which, okay, whatever, the two were close. But Pete was the only one who knew just _how_ close.

Gabe asked Patrick to get him a soda at one point, and Patrick smiled and got up to get him one, and Pete noted how Gabe watched him walk, particularly watched his ass with a little smirk, and how Patrick was walking with just a little sway to his hips. He returned with the soda, and, okay, holy shit, they were practically eye fucking.

Pete apparently wasn't the only one who noticed, because just then, Vicky leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Suarez said they were fucking on your bus yesterday. Crazy, right?"

"Seriously?" Pete said, widening his eyes at the two lovebirds. Gabe was showing Patrick something on his laptop, and they were sharing a pair of earbuds. Both were smiling.

"Uh huh. We heard gossip."

Ryland leaned in, grinning. "Stump's a screamer, apparently. I wonder what he's like?"

"I wouldn't know," Pete said. He looked at Patrick, remembered his sinful acts last night, and averted his eyes. Yeah, no.


	6. Favorite One Night Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just supposed to be a one night stand. Patrick saw this guy at Starbucks, with a bright smile and chocolate eyes and a peppermint latte, and talked to him, and then they were fucking at the guy's apartment. And that was it. They were over. He didn't expect the guy to follow him around for the next few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the notes I always write myself when working on fic, this was a result of me listening to Animals by Maroon 5 too much. So this was written around September 2014. Damn. Slow by Halsey also inspired this, when I tried to finish it up in early 2015; specifically the line, "I'm a mistake and we both could do better." But the title is from La La by The Cab. Lots of music, idk. This was also inspired by Pete's (canon) stalker tendencies. Ironically, I didn't even write about said stalkerness; I just wrote the scenes with Gabe. I had the right priorities, clearly. 
> 
> Finally, my notes state that this came from a fic idea: "there's no band but Peterick meet at a party or something and they hook up and Patrick's satisfied because he actually had a one night stand and it was cool, but Pete's obsessive as shit and he pretty much stalks Patrick until they actually get together." Sounds about right. Again, though; never actually wrote the Peterick scenes??? lmao.
> 
> Warnings: Alcohol drinking, slight smut, extremely dubious content that's stopped before it goes far.

Patrick's really not a one night stand kind of guy. He likes steady, serious relationships, he likes commitment, he likes a warm, familiar body to wake up to every night, except he wants it to be the same body, not someone new every night.

But then Anna cheats, and he finds himself at a gay bar, because he's so heartbroken and pissed off that he's in the mood to get fucked until he can't even think of her, or how she looked in _his_ bed. He's got a big guy next to him, buying him expensive, fruity drinks because he probably assumes a little dude like Patrick would be into that. Patrick wants harder stuff, though, and the guy looks surprised when Patrick interrupts him ordering another cocktail and says, "Vodka on ice, please, I don't care what brand." He looks at the man through his lashes, says, "You're paying, huh, baby? I'm pretty easy once I'm drunk."

The guy's shock at both Patrick's boldness and his peculiar choice of drink fades, and he grins and says, "That'll be on me," to the curly haired bartender, who eyes Patrick but nods and goes to get him his drink anyway.

An hour later Patrick finds himself on his knees in an alleyway, choking around the guy's cock, and he's so drunk he can't even attempt to give a somewhat decent blowjob, he's just letting the man fuck his mouth, drooling down his chin. He's having a hard time even keeping his eyes open, and they're watering and his jaw hurts because he's been at this for a while. This really wasn't even what he came to the bar for; he wanted end up in a stranger's bed, not on his knees giving head while he's barely conscious.

The guy's thrusting into his mouth and cursing, a hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard, but Patrick can barely feel the pain. He's vaguely aware of a sudden disturbance, someone coming over and yanking the guy away, shouting, shoving at the guy until he's muttering and walking away quickly. Patrick's slumped down, trying to keep his dinner and all the drinks down. His rescuer's bending down, poking at his cheek, petting his hair, talking slowly. Patrick opens his eyes, sees the dark eyed bartender from before.

"-gonna take you back to my place, okay?"

Patrick can't even nod, he just shuts his eyes again, and then he's being lifted up, carried bridal style in the bartender's arms. He passes out then, right after he's puked on the sidewalk, and when he wakes up, he's curled up on a recliner, and there's a bucket beside him. He throws up into it, then looks around. The room's spinning, but he's aware of a looming shape in the doorway. Last night comes back in a blurry, over-saturated, fragmented wave, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Hey," the guy says softly, coming over and looking down at Patrick, who opens his eyes again when the head rush passes. He's tall, really tall, and he looks Hispanic. "I'm Gabe. I was bartending last night and you left with this big guy, and when I was leaving a little later, I saw you, you know, blowing him in the alley, but you looked barely conscious. So I stopped him and took you home. I hope that's okay?"

Patrick blinks at this guy, Gabe, trying to comprehend what he just said. He faintly remembers that, remembers the gravel under his knees, remembers big, rough hands in his hair. He twists his lips to the side when he remembers why he was at the bar at all.

"Thanks," he says, his voice sounding scratchy and rough. "I appreciate it."

* * *

**(Skipped the entire Pete-meets-Patrick-and-they-bang part. Wow. This next bit's two or three weeks after that last bit. Patrick's forgotten about Pete, but he's started to get weird notes and shit. Meanwhile, Gabe's a sweetheart, and he's kinda got a big ol' grown-up crush on Patrick, but Patrick's dumb. I also want it known that in this scene, when Patrick orders a Manhattan, I originally wrote, |"*something hella*," patrick says | because that's how I write when I have to research things, but I'm in a hurry. Hahah. Something hella. Eh.**

Patrick finds himself at the same bar again, and Gabe waves him over and grins when he approaches. "Hey, chico!" he says. "How've you been?"

"Good enough." Patrick honestly doesn't care much, still frazzled over the odd letter he'd received, but out of courtesy, he says, "Yourself?"

"Life's been good," Gabe says, looking off and smiling at someone else. He looks down at Patrick again. "What can I get you, man?"

"A Manhattan, please," Patrick says, slapping a twenty down on the counter.

"Gotcha," Gabe says, winking and reaching for the money, and then he turns away to prepare the drink.

Patrick spins on his barstool, looking around at all the guys there, trying to find someone sort of decent looking who's hopefully big in the pants department.

"Here you go," Gabe says from behind him. 

"So you're gay, too?" he asks Gabe as he takes a sip of the drink he's handed. Maybe it's a bit forward, but Patrick's unconcerned. And, come to think of it, the 'too' was a little inaccurate, since he implied he was gay when he actually swings both ways, but it's too late to take it back now. 

Gabe shrugs, drumming his fingers on the counter. "Kind of. I pick up some of these guys sometimes, but, you know, women are pretty great." He smiles fondly, like he's thinking of someone special, and Patrick nods knowingly.

* * *

  **(This was where the stalkery nonsense was gonna start. Could've been great. Peep that EOWYG reference.)**

Patrick frowned down at the note. He blinked at what was written: _Would you mind if I sat next to you and watched you smile?_


	7. I Dare You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick never says no to dares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sent this concept to a friend prior to our falling out (in December 2015), and luckily I saved the screenshot haha, and it's featured below. Unfortunately I barely wrote it, but I still love the idea.

So the thing about Patrick - quiet, innocent, thoughtful little Patrick - is he never says no to a dare. Pete's crazy, Pete's fucking insane, but Pete spends a lot of time worrying about Patrick and the crazy shit he'll do when he's dared. He's genuinely concerned that he'll get dared to, like, jump off a building or something and he'll die being a stupid, stubborn asshole who can't say no.

But it's also kind of awesome, because if you prompt Patrick to do something, and stick the words 'I dare you' in there, he'll do it. No matter what it is. Pete tends to take advantage of that. To this day, he does - "I dare you to make me some coffee," he'll say, too lazy to do it himself, and Patrick will huff and roll out of his bunk and go curse at the coffee machine for six minutes until he comes back with a hot cup of joe. And he'll always takes a drink before handing it to Pete, just to be spiteful.

Pete can remember when he first found out about Patrick's weird little inability to say no to a dare.

Joe had approached him, just a couple of weeks after they'd even met Patrick, and said, "So, you know Patrick?"

"My little golden ticket?" Pete grinned. "Yeah, I've heard of him."

"Well, get this; he doesn't say no to dares. Ever."

Pete frowned. "So, like, if someone told him to jump out of a plane with no parachute, he'd do it?"

"Apparently," Joe said. He looked around, leaned in close, then whispered, "I heard he got dared to eat a live beetle when he was eight. And he did it."

"That's disgusting, what the fuck? Who the hell would dare him to do that if they knew he'd actually do it?" Pete looked at Patrick, who was across the room, socializing for once and gesturing wildly as he talked with some guy who was holding a guitar in one hand and his girlfriend's ass in the other. "Aw, man, that's sick. Poor kid. I bet he gets taken advantage of all the time."

Joe snorted. "We got high the other day and all the secrets came out. He's a virgin, if that's what you're thinking." Pete brightens at that, and Joe frowns. "Don't get any ideas, Pete, seriously. Patrick's off limits, okay?"

"Why are you telling me this anyway? If you don't want me fucking with him?"

"Chris and I came up with this thing - we wanna play truth or dare later, in the van. See how much crazy shit we can make him do."

"Don't do that to the kid-"

"It's not gonna be bad! We wanna see if he's worthy of hanging out with us, you know? Like - it's like initiation."

"Initiation my ass - do anything to scare him off, and your ass is hitch-hiking back to your mommy."

"Yeah, well, my initiation involved a dog collar, scissors, and a goat, so shut the hell up. Stop freaking, man. I thought you'd be excited for this."

"Don't break my golden ticket or I'll break you," Pete told him, and it was a warning but it lacked venom.

"We won't break him," Joe grinned.


	8. Partition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated prior to and after the VMAs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this in August 2015, for the VMAs. P&P went together, without Joe or Andy, and I wrote this. There's smut. Also Gabe. I dunno.

"Tell him to close the thing," Patrick tells Pete, jerking his head towards the front of the limo, his voice low. He shifts in Pete's lap, glancing awkwardly at the driver, who's singing along merrily to the cheery pop song that's on, completely oblivious to their backseat shenanigans.

"What thing?" Pete asks, even though he knows. He rubs his thumb under the head of Patrick's dick, watches the way his thighs tense and his canine tooth tears into his lip. A few good strokes, up and down on his dick, nothing but pre-come to slick it, and Patrick's shuddering, trying desperately to be quiet. Pete twists his wrist, and Patrick's breath hitches, and he bites down hard on his lip, eyes glued to the driver. Pete's definitely got an exhibition kink, and Patrick definitely doesn't; it's kind of disappointing, especially right now. The driver's probably seen worse, he's probably seen Madonna or someone doing some insane shit, the kind of shit you don't even see in the craziest pornos (and Pete's seen some crazy pornos), so he really doesn't understand why Patrick thinks he'd mind two rockstars getting it on in the backseat of his limousine.

"The thing, the rolly thing, f-fuck-" Patrick pants.

"The partition?" Pete supplies, and Patrick nods and says, "That, that, yeah," and Pete grins, that familiar shit-eating, megawatt smile of his. "Oh, okay. Driver?"

The guy automatically turns the radio down and looks back through the rear view mirror. "Yes?"

"Roll up the partition, please." The driver nods and obliges, and once it's up, Pete looks at Patrick and sing-songs, "We don't need him seeing Patrick on his knees."

"Shut up," Patrick mumbles, but he's sliding off Pete's lap and onto the floor of the limo anyway. "I hate you. If you're loud, I literally won't fuck you for, like, four weeks."

"Harsh," Pete says, watching as Patrick pops the button of his dress pants. "Really shouldn't worry about me being loud. You're the one we have to worry about."

Patrick scowls, even as he wraps a hand around Pete's dick; even as he leans down to mouth along the length of it. He looks up at Pete through his lashes, eyes wide - he knows how to play this game by now.

"Don't be a tease," Pete growls, reaching to shove Patrick's fedora off so he can grab a handful of his hair. He tugs his head up harshly, rough in his passion, and Patrick glares up at him, his lips red and wet already. "Don't be a fucking tease," Pete says again. "You know I hate that."

Patrick doesn't answer verbally, but he gives in, because then he's sliding his mouth over Pete's dick, taking him deep, and Pete's head falls back against the headrest. He bucks his hips up, but Patrick doesn't choke - ten years ago, he might've, but he's much too experienced by now. He swallows around Pete's dick, even, and when Pete looks down, Patrick's cheeks are hollowed and he's staring up at the other man, a little quirk to his eyebrows, like he's challenging Pete.

"Trying to decide if I should fuck you in here or not," Pete says, watching as Patrick finally pulls off his dick completely. He licks at his lips, and Pete lets go of his hair to touch Patrick's bottom lip with his thumb. Patrick licks at the pad, so of course Pete's got to push two fingers into his mouth, mumbling filth as Patrick sucks on them, never breaking his eye contact with Pete. "Should I fuck you in here?"

He pulls his fingers out, so Patrick can talk, and Patrick says, "Do you have a condom?"

"No," Pete says.

"Then you're not fucking me. We're not making a mess in the nice man's car."

* * *

 

**(At some point I decided they should have a threesome with Gabe?? Because he was there, too, and there's this picture of him with P &P? Yeah. This was before Cobra broke up. Fuck. They're in a hotel room now btw.)**

They're both a little drunk from one too many glasses of champagne at the after party.

Pete's straddling Patrick's waist, popping the botton's of his shirt and sucking at the thin skin at his collar bones, when Gabe barges in, holding a big bottle of champagne. He takes one look at them, then grins and kicks the door closed. He sets the champagne down on the counter and approaches them. "Thought we could get a little wasted first, but sure, this is good, too."

Pete sits up, still on top of Patrick, and smiles at Gabe. "Hey, man! Sorry to start without you-"

"Not a problem, I'm just happy to get in bed with my two favorite Fall Out Boys again," Gabe says, and he looks down at Patrick, who's already red-faced and breathing hard, staring up at Pete. Gabe touches his cheek, and Patrick looks at him. "Been a while, huh?" Patrick nods, and Gabe strokes his thumb down his cheek, gentle in a way he's usually not. Then he looks up at Pete again, smirking. "So how are we doing this?"

Pete shrugs. "I honestly don't care. Patrick?"

"Want Gabe to fuck me," Patrick mumbles, bucking his hips up against Pete.

Gabe whoops. "Get over here, cielo, right on papi's lap-"

Patrick makes a face, and Pete snorts. "Jesus fuck, Gabe, I thought we agreed we weren't doing the papi shit?"

"It's hot though," Gabe protests, but he's looking intently at Patrick. "C'mon, Patrick, seriously. It is!"


	9. I'm a Mess (But You're Worse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick is Pete's escort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, but I like the world-building I started to do. It could've been fun. This was written circa late 2015/early 2016. My friend came up with the concept. Title's from The Cab.

The worse part of escorting's definitely having to have communication skills. Patrick's not good with people, not good at chit chat or talking or any of that other shit. He's good at music and he's good at fucking - and considering his line of work, he better be. He's also a fairly decent masseuse - it's a part of the job, he has to be. But sometimes the clients don't want sex, or a massage; they want company. They want someone to vent to, someone to reassure them everything's going to be okay.

Patrick hates those clients.

Pete Wentz is one of those clients. He's not all bad, though. Patrick's worked for him for years, and he pays well, and has a nice dick that Patrick doesn't mind sucking, and he actually bothers to get Patrick off most of the time (when he doesn't fall asleep immediately after because he's so tired from living his crazy rock star life.) Patrick envies him sometimes, that he's got a life like that, that he gets to do music for a living, when he's stuck getting fucked by old dudes on Viagra. But said old dudes on Viagra make him appreciate Pete's toned body and youthful face a little more when they're together, even if it's at the cost of having to play a shrink for the evening.

Overall, it's not completely terrible. They talk about music when they're not fucking, argue over Aladdin Sane and Ziggy Stardust, the like. But the fucker always wants to talk about his life, whine about the highs and lows, bitch about P. Diddy pointedly ignoring him at the VMAs, complain about the actress he fucked who he may or may not used a condom with (the two of them _always_ used protection, but Patrick insisted Pete get tested after he was told that story anyway.) And he always wants Patrick's advice on his problems.

Patrick supposes that's some kind of compliment, that Pete trusts him with the messy contents of his mind - that he tells him things he may not even tell his actual therapist. He doesn't find it very flattering, though. It's just kind of annoying.

"I'm an escort, not a therapist," he said once, post-fuck. Pete lay beside him atop his stupid satin sheets, his arms folded behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. Patrick had rolled over to look at him, propping himself up on his elbow and narrowing his eyes a little. "Stop whining about your problems and let me enjoy the damn post coital high for once. You literally bathe in hundred dollar bills, asshole, you really have no right to complain about anything."

"You're not living too bad yourself," Pete had replied sharply, still staring at the ceiling, his jaw clicking loudly. "I've seen the other guys you fuck, you little gold digger, I know you take thousands of dollars weekly from the rich daddies you suck off."

It lacked venom but it still had Patrick burning hot with anger, and he spat, "Mind your own goddamn business, Wentz. What would your adoring fan base think about you banging male hookers in your free time? Don't fucking insult my profession when you're just as much of a whore as I am. At least I get paid for it."

"I get paid for whoring around just like you do," Pete had replied, sounding sad. His expression had changed, from anger to plain sadness. "We lead fucked up lives, huh?"

He was right, but Patrick would never admit it. So he'd stood and started dressing.

That was two years ago, and Pete's still the same miserable asshole. Why Patrick doesn't just quit, he can't figure out. Pete would let him go, he's sure. But the thought is unbearable, for some strange reason. He feels some strange obligation to keep an eye on the idiot. 


	10. My Head is like a Loaded Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick falls into a deep depression after his sex tape leaks. Pete goes to help him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...k. So I think around winter 2014, I came up with this concept where Patrick was openly gay and, during the hiatus, an ex-boyfriend sold their sex tape to the paps for money and revenge. So Patrick got depressed and Pete had to take care of him. And then, like, feelings. I don't fucking know. Title's from Dead by Sunrise.

When he walks up to the door, he presses his ear to it and hears the TV blaring. He steps back, knocks twice, and yells, "It's Pete and I have pizza! Let me in."

He hears Penny barking, and the TV gets considerably quieter, but the door doesn't open. He jiggles the handle, but it's locked.

"Dude, I will literally kick the door down if I have to," Pete calls, stepping back to size up his opponent. He's tiny but mighty - if he rams into it enough, it might budge.

He's just lifting his foot to give the door a kick when it cracks open, and a bleary red-rimmed blue eye peeks out. "What do you want?"

"Patrick," Pete says gently. "Can I come in?"

Patrick opens the door and there he is, in boxers and an open bathrobe. He doesn't have a shirt on underneath, so when Patrick puts his hands on his hips, Pete catches a flash of protruding abs. He's seen Patrick shirtless before, countless times, but he's never been so skinny. This doesn't seem right; this isn't his Patrick.

Except the ocean eyes and the pursed lips are so, so familiar. Pete's bombarded with a decade of memories whenever he looks into those eyes.

"You saw the tape, didn't you?" Patrick says, and his voice sounds rough. He won't meet Pete's eyes, too busy glaring at the ground. "Anthony's a fucking piece of shit, I can't believe I dated such an asshole." Patrick's eyes well up with tears, and when he squeezes them shut, one drips down cheek. He wipes at it angrily with the back of his sleeve.

"Patrick," Pete whispers, opening his arms, and Patrick falls into his chest and starts sobbing. Pete's not used to consoling him, it's always been the other way around, but Patrick's a tiny weeping mess in his arms right now, and best friend instincts take over, so he rubs at his back awkwardly and tries not to get Patrick's fluffy blonde hair in his nose.

* * *

**(The next two bits takes place three or four days after the first bit.)**

"The shit people are saying to me on Twitter is downright disgusting," Patrick grumbles. "My mentions are full of screenshots of the video and unnecessary commentary about my fucking _technique_."

"Anyone being supportive?"

Patrick presses his lips together and looks intently at his phone as he scrolls down his timeline. "A few fans, yeah, asking if I'm okay and saying they still respect and love me - thank God for them."

* * *

Pete's fucking around on Twitter himself when he accidentally stumbles upon what he's guessing is a screenshot from the leaked tape. He immediately clicks out of it before he's even fully seen the picture, but curiosity gets the better of him, and Patrick's in the shower anyway. He clicks the link again and stares intently at the photo, guilt sitting heavily in his chest. It's of Patrick, how he looked in 2005, all youthful naivety and pudge. He's on his knees, sucking the dick of the guy who's filming - Anthony, that fucker. Patrick's staring right into the camera, sleepy blue eyes hooded, mouth stretched wide over Anthony's admittedly large cock. His cheeks are hollowed, and his hair's a sweaty mess, too long, too shaggy. Perfect for pulling.

Pete mindlessly trails a hand down, pressing it against his crotch, and he's hard against his hand. He scoffs and takes a deep breath.

Then he exits out of Twitter.

Patrick's still in the shower. He doesn't need to know.

So he gets on Google, types  **patrick stump sex tape full video,** and holds his breath.

He clicks the first link he sees and tries not to panic as the video loads.

It starts, and Pete's greeted with the sight of a smiling Patrick, his face two inches from the camera. He's looking right into it, although his eyes are unfocused and he's going a little cross eyed. Drunk, probably. He's giggling a little bit. "Are you seriously filming? Oh my God, I'm so not photogenic enough for a sex tape, turn the fucking camera off."

"Wanna film me fucking you, for when you're off on tour, when I'm alone and I miss you. Please, baby?"

Patrick's brow furrows, and he bites his lip. Then he laughs and shakes his head. "You're lucky I'm such a pushover. You're a dick."

"You love it," Anthony says, and he lifts his hand to Patrick's face, strokes his thumb down his cheek, and Pete feels jealousy flare low in his stomach. He exhales out loud, taking in the sight of a naked Patrick on his knees.

"Maybe I do," Patrick smirks, nipping at Anthony's thumb when it presses against his bottom lip. He stares into the camera when Anthony pushes two fingers into his mouth, and Pete's dick perks up at the sight.

"You gonna let me fuck you?" Anthony says in that sleazy off-Jersey accent of his. "Gonna let me film it?"

"Yeah, sure, babe, but if anyone else ever sees this, I'm kicking your fucking ass," Patrick says, laughing, and Pete looks up anxiously as the shower turns off.

* * *

  **(Fast forward! Apparently Pete's lust is reciprocated! They're about to fuck! Woah!)**

"You never watched the tape?"

"Never watched it," Pete lies. He's jerked off to it so many times, it's imprinted in his skull.

"Kind of bummed, to be honest. If you watched it, you'd know how amazing I am at giving head."

"Well...why don't you just show me?"


	11. Like It or Not (I'm All You Got)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ABO. When alphas and omegas start their heats or ruts, there's special brothel-type places for them to go throughout the duration of it. For Patrick's first heat, he ends up with a guy named Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I wrote this around early 2016? Hell year. Ugh. But this was fun. I guess. I think this was around the time I started having a hard time writing smut. So this was one of the last smut fics I've written. Crazy. Title's from The Hush Sound.
> 
> Warning: underage content. Patrick's sixteen here, and Pete's twenty-one. I regret writing underage stuff, for the record, but the past is the past.

When it happens, when he wakes up from an impromptu evening nap with his boxers soaked and his dick hard - and not like morning wood, like goddamn morning _boulder_ \- he doesn't even process it at first. He frowns for a minute, trying to make his sleep-addled brain comprehend what's going on, and then he slides a hand into his underwear, feeling how they're wet at the bottom and, even stranger, how fucking _weird_ his dick feels. It's hot to the touch, and when he tries to wrap a careful hand around it, he hisses at the feeling; at the sting of over-sensitivity.

He carefully stands and awkwardly goes over to his desk, taking a rigid seat and powering up his desktop.

* * *

**(Skipped him doing research - these two parts are only like,** **five minutes apart.)**

"Joe," he says into the phone, trying to keep his breathing regulated, "Joe, I need you to do me a really huge favor."

"Aw, man," Joe says, "dude, I'm, like, totally getting laid right now, what do you want?"

"I'm, uh. I'm in heat. I just started. Can you buy me some suppressants? Or a plug? Anything."

Joe doesn't answer. Patrick can hear what sounds like a party going on on his end. Then there's a snort-like laugh. "You're a fucking omega, dude? Holy shit."

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick snaps. He exhales slowly, trying desperately to ignore the burn coursing through his whole body. "Please help me out, Joe. I'll, like - I'll do a bunch of favors for you, and I'll, I don't know, just, please do this for me-"

"Fuck, got to go," Joe says suddenly, and then he hangs up, and Patrick glowers at his phone. Physical heat suddenly flairs in his lower stomach, white hot and unbearable, and Patrick keels over at the force of it. It's too much, it's completely overwhelming; his body's on fire.

He calls his brother once it's subsided, because he doesn't know what else to do.

"Kev?" he rasps into the phone, and then he clears his throat and repeats his name.

"That's my name - don't wear it out," Kevin drawls. "What do you want, squirt?"

"I, um. I - I started my, uh." Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, then quickly says, "I'm in heat for the first time and I need help."

Patrick's pretty sure Kevin's a beta, maybe an alpha, though he's definitely not an omega, but he loses the sharp tone and he sounds sympathetic when he says, "Aw, hey, where are you? What do you need?"

"I don't know," Patrick says, rubbing at his forehead, "I don't know, Kev, please help me-"

* * *

 

**(Skipped a bit. Here's how Kevin helps.)**

There's places you can go, places where you pay an alpha or an omega prostitute to stay with you for as long as your heat lasts. Patrick knows about them, has since he was a kid. They're like folk lore, like the strip clubs and the brothels in old movies. He knew they existed, he just never thought he'd end up in one. But there he is, standing outside the building, trying in vain to peer through the thick heavy doors.

"Go on," Kevin yells from the car, and Patrick jumps at the sound of his voice, looking back. He's trembling everywhere, and his stomach aches - he's getting on suppressants as soon as his mom gets back to buy them for him, seriously. Kevin gives him an encouraging nod and waves at him to go. Patrick takes a deep breath and pushes one of the doors open, his sweaty palms slipping on the metal of the handle.

It's a small, relatively narrow room; a simple lobby. Five empty chairs on either side of a skinny ornate rug that runs along the whole space. R&B blared tiny from speakers on the wall, and a pretty brunette lady sits at a desk at the other end of the room, nodding her head to the music and tapping hurriedly at a computer. There's a single door on both her right and her left, no doorknobs on either.

"Um," he says, once he's nearly reached the desk, and she looks up, dark eyes boring into his. "Hi? I'm, uh." He fidgets, uncomfortable, hoping she gets the hint. He really doesn't want to say it.

"Alpha or omega?" the receptionist asks, sounding bored, quirking a thin brown eyebrow at him. She smells like a beta, fortunately, because he doesn't know how he'd deal with facing an alpha right now. That's probably why they hired her. 

"Omega," he says, averting his eyes.

She pulls her glasses off and regards him. "First time? What are you, sixteen? Fifteen?"

"Seventeen," Patrick frowns. He tries not to squirm under her harsh gaze. "I'm seventeen." He's not.

"Right," the woman says dully. She types away at her computer, clicks some stuff, then turns to Patrick. "Right hallway, room sixteen. Strip and wait on the bed. An alpha will be with you momentarily."

Patrick nods and vaguely wonders how many rooms there are. The big door on the right beeps and opens as he approaches it. He glances back at the receptionist, but she's already typing away again, and he chews his lip and goes through the door. It closes behind him, and there he is, trapped.

It's a long hallway, at least thirty feet, and it's lined by doors, reminiscent of a cheap motel. It's even dimly lit, which is a little spooky. He walks until he finds the one labeled with a big 16 - four from the end of the hallway, where there's two more doors, meaning twenty in all - and his heat spikes again in anticipation and he grips the door knob with a sweaty palm until the wave of desire passes. Then he opens the door, which blinks green and allows him in.

The room is small and neat, with a queen size bed in the center, dresser beside it (Patrick has a feeling it's full of condoms and sex toys, and when he peeks, he's right), another door on the left of the bed. Patrick closes the door he came from, slightly unnerved because it has no lock. Then he's taking his clothes off, and he's too anxious to worry or care about his naked body. He's sure the alpha who will take care of him has seen worse.

He sits on the bed, unsure what to do, and waits.

Within minutes, the door by the bed cracks open, and Patrick glances up as a small, dark haired guy comes in. He's hit with his scent before he can even get a good look at him; he smells so good, like an alpha, like power and control and authority, and Patrick's mouth practically waters.

"Damn," the guy says, "you fucking reek."

Patrick doesn't know if that's an insult or just a harmless observation. He just bites his lip, trying to focus when the guy smells so fucking good. He's shirtless, too, all tan skin and tattoos. Patrick wants him, and he wants him now.

"Alright, first heat?" When Patrick nods, the guy smiles. "Got it. My name's Pete, by the way. I've been here a while. I'll take good care of you, okay?"

Patrick half-smiles back, watching Pete unbutton his jeans and push them down. His vision gets a little hazy when Pete's in his underwear and his bulge is visible. When the underwear come off, and Pete's standing in all his naked glory, alpha cock soft between his thighs, Patrick comes very close to falling to his knees and begging to take it in his mouth. He wonders if Pete would let him, or if he'd scold him and push him away - wonders if he could even suck dick. He'd never thought of it before. He wants to try, though. He's suddenly desperate, whimpering, and Pete touches his shoulder. Patrick arches into the touch.

"Hey," Pete says softly, climbing onto the bed behind him and pressing his palms flat to Patrick's bare back. "What's your name?"

Patrick's barely able to choke it out; his brain's like soup, sparks shooting through his body at Pete's touch.

"Patrick. That's a cool name," Pete says, a little bit of amusement in his voice, a smile in his words.

Patrick would thank him if he could, but he's incoherent right now, whining when Pete pulls away.

"Roll over, on your back, come on."

Patrick obeys instantly, spreading his legs unconsciously, feet flat against the bed, hips tilted up. Instincts are taking over and he needs.

Pete's fussing in the drawers, humming to himself, and Patrick blankly stares at his ass, at the tattoo a couple inches above it, a weird circular thing. He blinks, then swallows hard when his heat rears its head again, making him twist his fingers in the sheets.

Pete returns to the bed with an armful of stuff; Patrick doesn't know what any of it is, aside from the lube and the fairly large blue plug.

"You're gonna fuck me, right?" he finds himself asking, and he'd blush if he was capable but he's too heat struck right now to be. "I don't - I want the real thing, I don't want the plug-"

"Don't you worry your pretty little head," Pete says, revealing his toothy white grin. "I'm definitely gonna fuck you. That's for, um, something else."

"We're gonna use condoms, right?" Patrick asks. He wants it desperately, but he also doesn't want to pay for this experience later. 

Pete winces. "I, like. Kind of have to blow my load in your ass or the heat won't go away?"

Patrick's eyes go wide. "Aren't - if you - if you do that, in me or whatever, can't - wouldn't we get bonded? Or mated or whatever? I don't want to get pregnant, man, I'm still coming to terms with this shit-"

Pete laughs, an obnoxious sound, and shakes his head. "I can't knock you up, don't worry."

Patrick's heard of that - some alphas take pills that makes their sperm infertile. He's sure all the alphas here are required to do so.

"What about the mating thing?" he asks, whining when Pete touches his thigh.

"That's what the supplies is for," Pete says. "You and I are gonna have a lot of fun, Patrick."

( **KINDA MAD AT MYSELF FOR STOPPING THERE NGL)**


	12. Looking Passed The Silken Sheets (Just Lay In The Atmosphere)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hooking up with Brendon Urie was kind of an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Oh Glory and Casual Affair by Panic! At The Disco. I wrote this in, uh. I don't fucking know. I have no memory of writing half these fics. I think this one was around the time The Weeknd's Beauty Behind the Madness came out (late 2015?), because that's when I started being obsessed with the themes of Abel's music - the dark side of fame, the not-so-glamorous parts of being a celebrity. Like, drugs and sex and prostitution and infidelity. I still love themes like that, and The Weeknd's still my favorite solo artist of the last decade. (And I finally got to see him last year, for my birthday, which was rad!) But yeah, I wanted to write a fic exploring that world. Didn't do it as well as I'd like to, it's way too messy, but. Ah well.
> 
> I also switched PoVs a lot, but I'm tired right now so I'm not gonna correct it. It's not super bad, though, so w/e.

Hooking up with Brendon was kind of an accident. A mistake, really, and a drunk one at that. Patrick had gone to Brendon's 21st birthday party at Angels and Kings, mostly because Pete had invited him and wouldn't leave him alone about how awesome it'd be. "There's gonna be booze and strippers and amazing music, and it's gonna be totally fucking kick-ass, Rick, you have to come!" He'd agreed, and he was actually looking forward to the event in the days leading up to it - it was another opportunity to get drunk and maybe get laid, and that was always fun.

He never expected to be on his knees at one am giving the birthday boy sloppy head in a bathroom stall.

But here he was, Brendon's cock in his mouth, and he's really drunk and he hasn't done this in a while and he's forgotten what a bitch the strain on his jaw is. He's frowning around the dick in his mouth, drooling and coughing, but Brendon doesn't seem to mind, if the way he's throwing his head back and trying to fuck Patrick's mouth is anything to go by.

Patrick pulls off of Brendon's dick with a wet pop and gives it a few strokes, cracking his jaw because it hurts now. "You wanna, like - you wanna go back to my place? And, like, I dunno, we can fuck if you want?"

"Fuck," Brendon gasps, his hips stuttering into Patrick's hand, "can't you just keep blowing me? Your mouth is, like, fuck. It's like, it's fucking sin, jesus fuck."

Patrick laughs a little, reaching down to give his own dick some attention. When he wraps his free hand around it, he nearly groans in relief - he's so hard, leaking, fuck. He gets off on giving head, and he's so absolutely turned on right now.

"Wanna take you home and fuck you all night," he says, dragging his tongue over the head of Brendon's cock. He tongues the slit and Brendon's knees buckle briefly. "You're, what, you just turned twenty one, right? That's twenty one spanks I could give you." He curls his tongue around the head, slides it down the length of Brendon's cock and then slides his mouth over it again, taking it as far as he can. He rubs his finger along the soft place between Brendon's balls and cock, humming around what's in his moth and jerking what's not, and Brendon pushes his hat until it's falling off and he's fisting a hand in Patrick's hair, yanking and throwing his own head back, moaning loudly. Patrick somehow manages not to choke, even when Brendon starts fucking his mouth again and his gag reflex decides to be a little bitch. He slides a finger down to touch Brendon's hole, not pushing in, just feeling. Brendon comes then, gasping, hips moving relentlessly, flooding Patrick's mouth. Patrick chokes a little, pulls off instantly and spits on the floor, and gets some more come on his cheek and chin in response. "Thanks for the warning," he says bitterly, wiping at his cheek with his sleeve and not caring that it leaves white smudges on his brand new hoodie.

"You're a fucking cock sucking _god_ ," Brendon says slowly with a sleepy grin, looking drunk and not just from all the birthday booze he's had. He leans his head back and laughs a little. "Holy fuuuuck."

Patrick stands up and gives Brendon a look-over. He only comes up to his shoulder. It's the same height difference with him and Joe. It makes Patrick's stomach burn for some reason. He's always loved being with someone a little - or a lot - taller than him. He watches Brendon catch his breath and vaguely wonders if he's a good fuck. He's sure he is - he's heard stories. He kind of wants to see if those stories are true - but now's not the time.

"Gonna go back," he says, unlocking the stall and stumbling out. Fortunately, the bathroom's empty.

"Your dick's out," Brendon says, following after Patrick and grabbing him by the shoulder.

Patrick looks down, and hey, yeah it is, and he's still hard, oh yeah.

"Here," Brendon says, shoving Patrick back against the wall and jacking his dick with the careful, calloused fingers of a musician. "I got you," he says, and then he kisses Patrick softly, and Patrick hadn't expected that, but he's not going to push him away. He melts into the kiss, whimpers into Brendon's mouth when his hand speeds up. He's arching off against the wall he's pressed against, desperate noises spilling from cherry red lips, and then he's coming, shaking with the force of it and going lax even as Brendon keeps stroking him and he's shivering with sensitivity.

Once Patrick's capable of talking, he manages, "We should, like-" and then stops when he sees what's splattered on Brendon's shirt and his own.

"Yeah," Brendon agrees anyway, reaching for a paper towel and wetting it and dabbing at his chest. He cleans their clothes up best he can, then nudges Patrick until he finally does up his pants.

Then they're leaving the bathroom - who knows how long they were in there - and Brendon pats Patrick on the shoulder before getting lost in the crowd. Patrick stands there dumbly, and then the bouncy eyeliner-wearing mess that is his best friend finds him, grabs him by the shoulders, and shouts, "Patrick! Where the fuck have you been, man, we're-" He stops suddenly, eyes sliding from Patrick's eyes to his mouth. "Dude, oh my God - who's fucking dick did you suck? If you got to Spencer before I did, I'll kick your ass! I've been trying to tap that for, fuck, like almost three years now?"

"Not Spencer. How'd you-?"

"Got a little something," Pete says, pointing to his own chin.

Patrick wipes at his face, and he'd be dying of embarrassment if he wasn't so drunk when he feels spit and come. "Fuck," he mumbles instead, dragging his sleeve along his face. "Fucking Brendon-"

"You sucked _Brendon_ off?" Pete fucking shouts, and thankfully the people around them who turn to stare aren't close friends.

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick snaps, and he's dazed and drunk, and the steady thump of the song that's playing is giving him a headache, but he still grabs Pete by the arm and pulls him through the crowd until they're in a relatively quiet corner. "Don't yell, you fucking moron, I don't need this becoming a Decaydance inside fucking joke. Let alone getting to the press or fans or something - fuck!"

"You sucked Brendon off," Pete whispers, all shocked wide eyes and gaping mouth. "You fucking slut. I've rubbed off on you!" He frowns suddenly, his mouth twisting to the side. "Not like that."

Patrick presses his lips together and rubs at his temples where his headache's thumping at the same beat of the song that's on. "Oh my God, shut your mouth, for fuck's sake-"

"Wait - you're gay! Bi? Bi! Oh my God, you're bi, you little shit, why'd you hide it from me? Oh my fucking God, my best friend's not straight and I didn't even know!"

"I'm not fucking-" Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. The words don't want to come out. It's clearly not the time to discuss his sexuality. "Can we - you asshole, I-"

"You never fucking-"

"Pete," Patrick snaps, and Pete shuts up, looking down at Patrick with kohl-lined wide eyed browns. Patrick feels goddamn butterflies in his belly; he hates that his crush on Pete blatantly rears its head when he's drunk, while he can somewhat easily forget about it when he's sober. He takes a deep breath. He's not sure what he wants to say, so he closes his eyes and exhales. "Pete, okay, I kind of think I'm gonna puke, so can we talk about this later?"

Pete pulls a concerned face and reaches around to rub Patrick's back. "Want me to take you home, man?"

He doesn't want to go home alone. He'd seriously intended on having actual intercourse with someone tonight - he'll be pissed if he ends up alone at home with not a person,  but a bucket between his thighs.

He shakes his head. "I'm okay, thanks."

Later, he pukes his brains out in the same stall he sucked Brendon off in, and then he ends up buttering up and bringing home some burly blonde guy with a lot of tattoos that he thinks is a friend of a friend of Andy's. He's a terrible fuck; Patrick's glad it's not his first time bottoming, because otherwise he might be turned off of gay sex for the rest of his life. He receives, but the guy sure as hell doesn't deliver - Patrick mentally apologizes to every woman who's ever gotten ripped off in bed, and he's thankful that he's always been a generous lover when sleeping with the opposite sex. He's sure there's nothing worse then someone coming, pulling out, rolling over, and falling asleep when you're laying there unfinished and abandoned, and he'd hate to be the sort of dick who did that. He has to get himself off, fingers in his ass and hand around his cock, and then he glares at the guy's back for ten minutes. He always feels vulnerable after he's been fucked, and he likes being spooned, likes being held close to a warm chest until the brief existential crisis he always has fades, or until they have to wake up in the morning, either one. This guy's just snoring in all his naked muscular glory. Patrick has to roll over because he feels sick just looking at him.

He's usually not one for one night stands, but somehow when he wakes up in an empty bed he doesn't mind.

Fall Out Boy's manager calls four times before Patrick finally picks up. He fumbles with the buttons, pushes the phone to his head upside down, then turns it and croaks, "Yeah."

"Patrick," Bob says sternly, "Patrick, I know Brendon's party was wild - Pete just called and said he woke up to everyone in Panic on his floor. But you and him have to do an interview today. I don't care if your fucking liver's failing, you're doing this goddamn interview."

"Cancel it," Patrick says, smushing his face into his pillow. Bob doesn't hear him, so he lifts his head to repeat what he's said before dropping back down. He feels like fucking shit, and his ass hurts like a bitch - he can vaguely remember that the guy last night had a big dick, and he can also vaguely remember himself begging to be fucked hard, but he really, really doesn't want to think about that.

"You have an interview to do," Bob says firmly. "Pete's gonna pick you up in an hour and a half. Be ready."

"Radio interview, or-"

"Dress nicely, and take an aspirin," Bob says. "Bye, Patrick."

Bob hangs up, and Patrick throws his phone aside and groans into his pillow.

He drags himself up eventually and dresses himself in a hoodie and jeans. Bob said nice, but Patrick can just say he misinterpreted 'nice' as 'casual'. It's not a big deal - Pete shows up in similar attire, a plain white t-shirt and his signature too-tight jeans, pin striped, but with suspenders and a ridiculous black tie covered in purple bartskulls, too. Patrick snorts and winds his hand in it, pulling Pete closer, and Pete looks down at him, surprised by his behavior.

" _I'm_ the gay one," Patrick says, letting him go, and Pete laughs, gesturing down at Patrick's shoes.

"You're the one wearing pink Adidas, dude," and Patrick laughs, too, slings an arm around Pete's shoulder and goes out the front door with him. "Speaking of gay," Pete says, his voice dropping lower, "what's going on with you, man? You like dick now? Why didn't you like dick five years ago when I was single?"

Patrick shrugs. "After Anna I just thought I'd, you know, experiment a little."

"Hmm. And your, uh, consensus?"

"Not bad."

"So you're - you're bisexual." Pete rests his arms on the roof of his '77 Firebird and levels his gaze at his friend.

"I'm gonna take the Andy approach and say I don't subscribe to labels? But yeah, I guess you can say that."

"Are you gonna address it? Publicly?"

Patrick shrugs again. "You know I like to keep my private life, private."

"I meant, like, to the guys, not to the fans or press."

"If it gets brought up, sure. But it's - it's somewhat tentative. So I don't know."

"Eh. I know you, Rick, and if you keep it a secret it's gonna eat at you."

Patrick can't really argue that, so he doesn't, and instead silently gets into the car when Pete unlocks it, shifting uncomfortably at the twinge in his ass. 

* * *

 

**(Here's where shit gets odd? I dunno what I was..going for, I just kinda..wrote things. Big gay mess. I was an ignoramus. I still am, but a woke one. 2015 me just really wanted Patrick, specifically prehiatus Patrick, to actually be gay, I guess? Blegh.)**

The interviewer asks about their significant others - Pete talks about Ashlee for five minutes, as they've just announced their engagement but doesn't mention the baby or how the pregnancy is going because it's still a secret.

Then Patrick's asked the same question - "So how about you, Patrick, what's going on when you're not on stage or in the studio?" and Patrick kind of just blurts, "I spend a lot of time at gay bars."

There's silence for a few beats, and then Pete starts laughing, quietly cracking up, putting his head down and laughing into his hands. The two interviewers join in, laughing nervously. Patrick laughs because he'd hate to be the only one not laughing.

"You're serious?" the guy asks, wiping tears from his eyes. "Wait, this is big news! Is the lead singer of Fall Out Boy coming out on our show? That's pretty crazy."

Patrick turns red, but there it was, he's out. Which, well. Pete told him to.

They leave a bit later, without answering phoned-in questions out of fear of being harassed, and get in the car silently - and then Pete reaches across the center counsel and slaps Patrick's thigh, grinning huge. "You absolute motherfucker!"

Patrick smiles nervously, pushing his glasses up a little and then adjusting his hat. "That was terrible."

"I hang out at gay bars all the time," Pete says, mimicking Patrick as best as he can. Pete's terrible at impressions. Patrick still blushes. "Dude, that was fucking incredible. What - what the fuck _was_ that?"

"I felt compelled," Patrick shrugs. "Like I said - I wouldn't deny it if it got brought up. I think my wording made me sound like I was fully gay, though."

"You _are_ gay, buttfucker," Pete grins, giving Patrick a playful nudge. "I mean, partly, anyway. Holy shit, this means I finally have a gay best friend! I've wanted one for years! You know how many white girls would kill to be me? Too bad your fashion sense is fucking disgusting. How's your taste in men?"

"I like 'em big and manly," Patrick says in a lisp, grinning, and Pete cackles. 

"Have to set you up, oh my God."

Patrick just smiles and shakes his head.

Suddenly, going serious, Pete says, "Wait, fuck, dude, how long?"

"Like, after Anna," Patrick says, fumbling with the air conditioning because he feels very hot, and not in the good way.

"Patrick," Pete says gently; Patrick looks up at him and he looks concerned, dark brows pulled together.

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Christ, Pete, you wanna know everything? Fine. When I was a teenager I used to jack off to, to fuckin' Prince and Bowie, okay? That was the start. Just, you know, sometimes seeing boobs didn't do it for me. When I joined the band, the guys who couldn't have you hit on me. I gave a few handjobs, sucked a few dicks, whatever. Wasn't a big deal. I got luckier with the guys than with the girls. And then, you know, Anna, but after that, I dunno, I've only been with guys since. One night stand kind of things."

"Shit, dude, you - you use condoms, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course, do you know how gross it is when someone - you know - in your ass? It feels disgusting."

Pete nods knowingly, and then he's looking at Patrick, alarm in his eyes. "Dude, holy shit, you take it?"

"Jesus," Patrick says, reaching over to turn on the radio. "Drive, Wentz - the longer you're in this car with me, the likelier you are to catch my gay."

"I'll pitch you some gay, man, I'm up for that. I'm sure Ash won't mind."

Patrick laughs.

* * *

 

**(Skip a few weeks - I wanted Brendon/Patrick, so I badly wrote Brendon/Patrick.)**

"I want Brendon on this song," Pete tells everyone, fixing Patrick with a look. "I think he'll bring something great to this, you know what I'm saying?"

"That'd be cool," Joe says from the corner, barely looking up from his laptop. He's been glum lately, bitter. "On the chorus, yeah, they'd sound great."

"Patrick?" Butch asks.

"Yeah, that sounds cool." Patrick glances at Pete, who's grinning a little, smug.

Brendon comes in a few days later, when their schedules line up. He sings his verse flawlessly, and when the time comes for their duet, Patrick has to stand on a box to be the same height as him. When they finish the take, Patrick smiles a little when everyone else starts clapping, stepping down from the box he's on.

"We make good music together," Brendon says, smiling and pulling Patrick in for a hug that presses Patrick's face to a firm chest.

"We could make a different type of music," Patrick says, softly, so Pete doesn't hear. When he pulls out of the hug, Brendon's looking down at him with dark eyes.

When Butch finally kicks them out of the studio, so he can mix the tracks in peace, Brendon catches Patrick's arm as he's leaving. "You wanna, like. You wanna go back to your place or something?"

"Sure, yeah," Patrick says, smiling a little.

Brendon's pretty good in bed. Maybe one of Patrick's top ten fucks. He's sloppy and rough in his excitement, but Patrick hasn't been fucked since that party two months ago and even when Brendon slides his mouth over Patrick's dick and says, "You wanna do me? I totally want you to," Patrick shakes his head and says, "No, no, I want you to fuck me, okay?"

Brendon hesitates, considering that, and then he shrugs. "Lube?"

Patrick points, and Brendon retrieves it. He comes back, settling between Patrick's thighs. Patrick's still got his shirt on, because he'd feel horribly insecure next to Brendon's washboard stomach without it, but Brendon understands. He slicks his fingers, pressing two into Patrick. Patrick gets up on his elbows to look down at Brendon, who's dark eyes are focused between Patrick's legs.

When he's stretched - he hasn't been so carefully prepared since that first time with Joe, fucking Joe of all people - Brendon finds a condom and slides it onto his dick with one hand, the showy motherfucker. He starts to position himself between Patrick's legs, but Patrick shakes his head and puts a hand on Brendon's chest. "I wanna be on my hands and knees, and I want my hair pulled, and I want you to fuck me hard."

"Jesus," Brendon breathes, looking wonderfully disheveled, and he nods and moves away, letting Patrick roll over and then get up. Then Brendon's slipping gentle fingers into him again, rubbing at his prostate until Patrick's knees feel weak and his skin burns. Then the fingers slide out and Patrick feels the familiar bluntness of a cock against his hole, and then Brendon's pushing in, reaching up to tentatively wrap a hand in Patrick's hair. He's physically on the smaller side of the guys Patrick's been with, because he wasn't joking when he said he preferred big guys, but somehow the sharp narrow press of Brendon's hips against his ass is comforting. He sucks in a few breath, clenches involuntarily around the dick in his ass, then shifts so he's resting his arms on the bed, because he knows his arms are going to give out once Brendon starts really fucking him.

"You okay?" the Panic singer asks, and he's breathing hard - Patrick feels sweat pooling at the base of his spine and he doesn't think it's his own. "You're - this isn't your first time, right? You're, like. You're really fucking tight, man, I don't wanna hurt you."

Patrick scowls and glares at Brendon over his shoulder. "Fuck me, Urie, I'm not gonna fucking break."

And Brendon does, and he gets a little careless once he's into it - sharp hips slammimg into Patrick's ass hard enough to bruise, rough hands pulling at Patrick's hair, cock slamming into Patrick, hitting his prostate if he tilts his hips a little, and it's enough to make him shout. He's pretty quiet in bed, usually kind of submissive, but he keeps snapping at Brendon, maybe a little cruelly - "Don't grab my hair so hard, dumbass, that fucking hurts" " - and Brendon's listening to him. It's a weird kind of power trip, having control of someone who's fucking him. He snaps his hips back, cries out when Brendon keeps a steady, nice angle, and then he's coming, the hard, intense kind of orgasm he has when no one touches his cock. Brendon keeps fucking him, even when he's whining because he's oversensitive.

"C'mon," he urges, reaching back to grab Brendon's hip, because he wants Brendon to finish up, and it'd be rude to make Brendon jerk himself off. "C'mon, Brendon, come already."

"Yeah, yeah, fuck yeah," Brendon gasps, and then his hips are stuttering and he's groaning, and then he goes still, laying over Patrick. He's heavy and annoying.

"You good?" Patrick asks, craning his head to try to look back at him.

"M'good, yeah," Brendon mumbles, eyes closed, head against Patrick's shoulder.

"Tired?"

"Yeah."

"Pull out before you fall asleep, please."

"Right," Brendon says, and Patrick makes a face when he pulls out, but his legs give out, and he flops right down, right into the mess he'd made beneath his stomach. He's too tired to be disgusted. He's dreading washing his sheets, though. Brendon flops down next to him, and when Patrick opens his eyes, he sees he's breathing hard, plump lips parted, dark eyelashes against sharp cheeks. He's attractive, he really is, and, again, he's far from the big guys Patrick usually is into, but Patrick doesn't mind.

"Holy shit," Brendon says, laughing a little. He has a nice smile - it makes his eyes crinkle at the corner, and that reminds Patrick of Pete. "Wanna do this again sometime?" he asks, inhaling deeply. Patrick vaguely hopes he smells okay - he took a shower today so his hair probably smells like vanilla, and that's good.

"Sure," Patrick says simply. 


	13. Glimpse of the Silhouettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agents Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's more recent! I wrote this during summer 2016, when I was reading obsessively about true crime. My family was on vacation, and I'm a depressed grump, so I spent it huddled up in my hotel room watching Criminal Minds. I spent the drive home working on this, but then I lost interest. Ended up actually writing a serial killer story on this account, but in another fandom lol. Huh. Anyway. Title's from The Neighbourhood. Enjoy.
> 
> Aw, wrote a brief disclaimer when I worked on this with the intention of posting it: "Names you recognize as people from bands don't belong to me. Names you don't recognize are characters made up by me; they are fictitious and if they seem like a real life person, that's purely coincidence. I'm not profiting from this whatsoever." Awe. Fetus Shay and her disclaimers. 
> 
> Now, I'd like to add: I hope nothing in this is offensive. Associating LGBT people and serial killings possibly wasn't the best idea. I edited out anything that felt overtly insensitive. I'm still posting it, because this fic had potential and I think it's fairly engaging, but I've grown a lot as a person since I wrote this, and I doubt it would've got written at all had I had the idea in 2018. 
> 
> Onto the fic. Warning for, like, serial killer related stuff.

Sometimes Pete thinks he should quit. His job, his life; drop it all and move to Canada or something. Buy a little cabin and live out the remainder of his days alone, just the snow and him, hunting dinner and chopping firewood.

Now is one of those times, because as soon as he sits down, Patrick's slapping a manilla file down on the table between them.

Pete groans loudly. "I wanted some coffee and alone time with my favorite blonde, Rick, not another damn murder case."

"Too bad, Detective Wentz," Patrick says, snarky. "I personally volunteered to oversee this case, and you're helping me out on it, you hear me?" He sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. He's in a leather jacket today, over a v-neck t-shirt that shows off his very sparse chest hair. He's trying to look manly, but he just looks ridiculous. Pete rolls his eyes, and Patrick frowns at him and points to the folder. "Six men, last seen in six different gay clubs, all in the Chicago area. Bodies found along the Des Plaines River. Death by strangulation for each one; perp used a ligature each time. Take a look."

Pete braces himself for the gory pictures and flips the folder open; thankfully, it's nothing too bad. All the men are naked and completely in tact, even though four of them have visibly started to decompose. There's no blood, no visible dismemberment that Pete can see. The only marks on them at all are the bands around their necks, suggesting what Patrick's already confirmed.

Pete squints at the faces. He always gets squirmy when he sees the dead eyes of a murder victim, but he forces himself to access the faces; look for similiar features between the six. He lays all the pictures out on the table and hopes no one walks by; unprofessional, sure, but Pete's been in this business long enough that he really doesn't care. Plus they're at the back corner table. No one's seated nearby.

"All of them are on the chubby side," Pete comments. None of the men in the pictures have any defined muscle; they're all slightly pudgy, and pretty pale - not just because they're dead. "All Caucasian. But there's two blondes, three brunettes, and a black haired dude. So he doesn't have a specific type, other than he likes pudgier white guys."

Patrick nods. "They're all short, too. Between 5'3 and 5'7. They're not all entirely Caucasian, though; black haired guy is half Chinese, and two of the brown haired guys have Latino heritage. One's Mexican, one's Guatemalan." He points to one picture - the Mexican guy, Pete's pretty sure. "This one was transgender, which is causing a big uproar in his home town. Mostly because his parents and the news are misgendering him."

"That's bullshit," Pete says absently, skimming over the files. "The guy's dead, give him some respect."

"Exactly." Patrick sits quietly while Pete reads the files somewhat-thoroughly. When Pete sighs loudly and sits back, taking a big drink of his coffee, he asks, "Well?"

"Victims are between nineteen and twenty-six. All mostly white, all wearing hats the last time they were seen, all on the chubby side. Unsub's probably a while male, probably twenty-five through forty, maybe older if these kids thought they were going home with a daddy-type guy. We should get the families in to try and find out more about the victims, could lead us to the guy. You already talked to the bartenders, huh?"

Patrick hums absently. He's looking at one of the pictures - one of the blondes.

Pete squints at him. "You're okay working this case, right?"

Patrick looks up. He looks tired. "Yeah, of course. Why? 'Cause he's targeting guys that look like me?" Pete nods, watching him skeptically. "Yeah, just a coincidence. I even used to go to clubs, years ago, so I guess it's just really ironic."

"Huh," Pete says, studying Patrick's face. He decides to let it go. "We got DNA on this guy?"

"No. Well. Kind of. No fingerprints, he wore gloves, but they found, uh, semen in three of the victim's stomachs. Which mean, uh."

"Unprotected oral sex. Pre-mortem, right?" Patrick nods, and Pete peers down at the files again. "Anything suggesting sexual assault?"

Patrick shakes his head. "No fresh bruises on any of them, and nothing suggests post-mortem penetration of any type. Pre-mortem, ah, anal pentration on two of them. But, alright, here's the kicker," Patrick says, leaning in close. "Two of the six tested positive for HIV. And the semen tested positive as well, in all three victims."

"So, what? The guy has AIDs, so he's going out with a bang and bringing guys who look like his ex with him?"

Patrick shrugs. "That's what we're thinking."

"Huh," Pete says. "DNA match up with anyone?"

Patrick shakes his head. "That's the worst part; guy's an immigrant or something. Has to be, because he literally doesn't exist. Tyler couldn't find him anywhere."

Tyler's their computer guy - which Pete thinks is fitting, because he associates computer guys with that star-nosed mole on the movie G-Force. The one that's voiced by Nicholas Cage. Tyler's kind of like a mole, Pete thinks. Sniveling and kind of ratty. Always kind of looks like he's been sucking on a lemon. He's not blind, though. But he's an okay guy, and he does his job well, so Pete doesn't totally hate him.

"Gotta get back," Patrick says, throwing back the last of his coffee. "We're sending the CPD out to start looking. Hayley's gonna get a hold of the news and get them to mention it tomorrow and put a number up for any tips. I'm handling any and all tips personally; this shit hits home, I'm not settling 'til this bastard's dead or in jail."

"Alright, Detective Stump," Pete mumbles through a mouthful of blueberry danish. "Let's go."

* * *

Pete holds up the manilla folder. "Alright, new case, fuckers. Got a guy, elusive immigrant of some kind, going out to gay nightclubs, getting laid, then killing the guys he just fucked. Dumping them in the Des Plaines River."

One curly-haired, young officer raises his hand. Overachiever. "Dahmer copycat, maybe? If he's hitting up the gay clubs?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Dahmer picked his victims up outside the clubs, near bustops, to avoid detection. So the bartender couldn't tell the cops that he saw the missing person leave with him."

"He looked at the menu inside, but ordered outside," Pete agrees. "Our guy's not as smart. Or maybe just more reckless. Dahmer was very, very careful about covering up his tracks. But he was also extremely paranoid, and he wasn't a psychopath. Unsub's acting like he wants to be caught. Which isn't unusual, actually. Lots of psychopaths think they can avoid detection, so they flaunt it, and that pride ends up being their downfall."

Patrick nods. "Yeah, a lot of these guys get intentionally reckless near the end of their spree, if they've gone mostly undetected, because they want the media to pay attention and the public to panic. Or they've started feeling guilty. Former's more likely, though. Regardless; five bartenders have reported seeing men matching the profiles of the victims leaving with a tall, skinny dark-haired guy. Both the victim and the unsub are always wearing hats, but all five have reported different types of hats. We're not sure if they just can't remember, or if unsub switches them up."

"In that case, if he's into hats, he might be balding, putting him somewhere between thirty and fifty." Pete catches Patrick's eye, and he's glowering a little, reaching up to adjust his fedora.

"How tall are we talking?" Hurley asks. SSA Andy Hurley's the brawn of every operation, but he's also incredibly smart. He doesn't talk too much, but he's a funny guy, and he's thoughtful and soft-spoken, yet bad ass as hell. Pete's pretty fond of him.

Patrick shrugs and glances at Pete, still glaring. "None of the bartenders specified. Makes sense, though, if the unsub was sitting when he ordered a drink. Hard to tell, then. We're thinking around six foot - not remarkably tall, or he would've stood out more. Average looking guy; handsome, but not drop dead gorgeous or anything. We've contacted the clubs and asked to take a look at their surveillance cameras from the nights these boys disappeared, by the way. They'll hopefully get back to us by tomorrow."

"You said Des Plaines River?" a petite female officer with cornrows asks. "Isn't that where John Wayne Gacy dumped a couple of bodies? You think unsub's emulating Gacy and Dahmer, but not fully? Paying respect, but still coming up with his own MO?"

Patrick looks at her and smiles a little, and Pete watches him and smiles himself. He's been working with the guy for three years and two months, and he's been in love with him all thirty-eight months. Unfortunately Patrick's in a happy relationship - which Pete's fine with, he respects it, but he still finds himself fantasizing sometimes. When he sees Patrick smiling at an officer who's on the same page at him, he imagines him smiling up at Pete from between his legs and, well. Pete's kind of a perv, he'll admit, but he's not hurting anyone, so he doesn't plan on stopping anytime soon

"Maybe," Patrick tells her. "Sleeping pills were found in the victim's stomachs, so it's probable the unsub drugged them prior to killing them - which is something Dahmer did, true."

Pete jumps in just then. "Also means our guy's not sadistic, so he's probably not a psychopath, if he's following Dahmer's path and drugging them before killing them, so they won't be in pain. No dismemberment, no mutilation, no signs of torture or struggle. You know, it's just different enough that I'm gonna say it's not actually a copycat case."

Dr. Ross speaks then - Dr. Ryan Ross, a lanky, fairly emotionless guy. He's kind of snotty, and remarkably bland, so Pete tends to avoid him, but the guy is a genius. Pete's only close to a handful of the people on his team, but he's definitely got respect for each and every member. "So what you're saying is, we're dealing with a guy who's hooking up with men, drugging them, killing them, and then dumping their bodies, all for no discernible reason."

"He's doing it for the hell of it," Patrick nods. "Detective Wentz suggested he's killing guys who resemble an ex, but aside from them all being short and sort of heavyset, there's no other psychical similarities."

"Were the victims reported missing?" Hayley asks from across the room. Hayley's five foot tall, and her fiery red hair matches her fiery personality - but she's funny and smart and sweet and genuine and Pete loves her a lot.

"Uh huh," Patrick says, reaching for the folder that's on the table beside him and flicking through it. "Uh, Victim #1, a Matthew Rouse, was reported missing by his mother, whom he lived with, on October 9th of last year, and she claimed she hadn't seen him since two days prior. His body was found the same day she reported him missing, and cops quickly made the match. He'd been dead for two days. Jogger stumbled upon him."

"So he died that night?" a bald-headed, bulky officer asks. "The guy didn't keep him alive, he killed him the same night he picked him up? Did he dump the body that night or did he wait-?"

"The bodies weren't altered post-mortem, so I don't see any reason why he'd keep them."

"Sexual gratification?" Hurley suggests.

"Doesn't appear to be a necrophile, though," Ross reasons, sounding more nasally then usual today. He's got the files and he's looking through them; his desk is close enough that he's simply reached over and grabbed them from where Patrick had set them down beside him. Patrick's glaring at the back of his mousey head. "No DNA found on them, just a couple of fabric fibers on three of them, implying the guy used mittens, not medical or kitchen gloves, but winter gloves. Even though it's summer. Semen found in the three of their stomachs, but a **(I CUT OFF HERE & IDK WHAT I WAS GONNA SAY. I THINK SMTH ABT THE MOTIVE CUZ THE NEXT LINE IDK SORRY)**

Pete shakes his head. "We don't know his motive, that's the thing. Most serial killers have a clear motive; usually it's something sexual. Bundy killed because he was a misogynist and a sadist and a necrophile. Dahmer killed because he wanted a completely submissive sex partner who wouldn't abandon him. Gacy killed because he was a manipulative sadistic psychopath. Wuornos killed out of self defense, or so she said. Ramirez killed because he was a sadistic satanist. This guy's obviously not killing for any of those reasons, we don't think, and as far as we know, he's not a sadist, and so what's his motive? We got the MO, but the motive's a mystery."

"Maybe it was a hate crime?" the female officer from earlier asks. "If he's targeting gay white men, maybe he's a homophobic man of color?"

"Makes sense," Ross says, reading over one of the pages. He looks up and pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Could be linked to childhood trauma. A gay white man molested him when he was a child?"

Patrick shakes his head, a little irked at Ross' know-it-all assumptions. "He had sex with half of the victims pre-mortem, and there was no signs that the sex was forced, or even rough, so I think it's safe to assume the guy's genuinely attracted to men. Besides, some of the victims weren't white. White passing, sure, but not completely white. If that were the case, he'd carefully seek out Caucasian men exclusively."

"What dates were the bodies discovered again?" Hayley asks, tapping her chin. She's sitting cross-legged on top of her desk; Pete smiles at her. She's like his kid sister.

Patrick reaches a hand out to Ross, who frowns, but hands the file back. Patrick flicks it open. "Alright, let's get the victim profiles over with.

"Victim #1, Rouse, was found two days after disappearing on October 7th. He was nineteen, went to school at Chicago Uni, lived at home with Mom. He was white; blonde hair, blue eyes.

"Victim #2 was one Tristan Jimenez, a transgender Mexican man. He was twenty-three; his sister reported him missing on Halloween, after getting a call from his landlord that he hadn't seen him in a week. They found his body on November 4th.

"Uh, Victim #3, an Alexander Jacobson, white male, age 26, was reported missing by his roommate on January 15th. The roommate had assumed, after Jacobson didn't come home on the night of November 25th, that he'd gone home for the holidays, but when he didn't come home for two months, he got worried and reported to the police. The body was found a couple days later - he'd been dead for three months, but his body was buried under the snow and partially preserved. Roommate was initially the primary suspect, but he had an alibi and we've confirmed the semen found in Jacobson's stomach contains the same DNA as the semen found in the other two victims.

"Next was Micah Jones, white male, reported missing by his boyfriend on January 10th after he disappeared from the club they two had gone to to celebrate Micah's 21st birthday, two days previous. Body discovered on January 17th."

Patrick stops, takes his glasses off, and rubs his eyes. A couple of officers are taking notes; others are listening intently. Pete takes the file from Patrick and continues where he left off.

"Victim #5, Andrew Su Lee, was a twenty-three year old Chinese-American. A neighbour reported him missing; he's estranged from his family. Disappeared January 26th, body found on Feburary 2nd.

"Sixth victim was discovered five days ago, on the 3rd. They're still identifying him, but he appears to be Latinx, potentially Guatemalan, and between twenty and twenty-five. That's all - so far."

Everybody contemplates that for a long moment. Then they all start talking.

"So he's pretty much killing once a month? Sometimes twice a month?"

"This is all in Chicago? Fuck, man, I got a gay cousin living out here-"

"Why don't we have people camp by the river and wait for the motherfucker?"

"Fuckin' dumbass, you know how big that damn river is?"

"Hey!" Pete yells, and everybody shuts up. "Me and Rick are interviewing the victim's families tomorrow. He's already spoken to the bartenders, and they provided some useful information. We're hoping the families might give us a clue about the unsub's motive. Or maybe just a previously undiscovered link."

"We'll get back to you on that," Patrick finishes. "Hayley, get the news to cover this. If any of you has a gay relative, give him a call and tell him to be careful and tell his friends, alright? Thank you. You're all dismissed."

* * *

"Matthew was a saint," Mrs. Rouse says firmly, holding a tissue up to her nose. Her blue eyes are watery and red; she teared up as soon as Pete and Patrick arrived at her door and informed her they had to speak to her about her son. "He never would've intentionally provoked the - this man. He was a sweet, loving boy."

Mrs. Rouse is a kind lady, of German descent if the decorations adorning her home are anything to go by. She's around fifty years old, and she's not wearing a wedding ring, but she introduces herself as Mrs. Rouse. A look at the family pictures on the wall tells Pete that Matt Rouse was the youngest of two boys.

"We're just wondering what could've triggered the suspect, ma'am," Patrick's telling her. "Your son was the first of six; we're just wondering if he did something to make this guy snap."

There's a possibility Matt knew the unsub prior to the murder, Pete thinks idly, glancing around the room. He recognizes the guy from the files, and his brother is stick thin while Matt's been chubby since childhood, so he can tell which pictures on the wall are of him. There's one of him in a clunky football uniform; another of him in a tuxedo, arm in arm with a pretty dark-haired girl. Prom, Pete's guessing.

"Ma'am," Pete says, "you were aware your son was homosexual, correct?"

Mrs. Rouse nodded.

"Were you supportive of your son's sexuality?"

She purses her lips. Not a good sign. "It goes against my religion, and I was upset when he told me, but my love for him never faltered. I told him as long as he didn't bring any men home or anything like that, it'd be fine. I was upset I'd never get grandchildren, but it really didn't matter to me. He's still - he was still my baby, no matter what." She starts crying again, and Patrick, of course, goes to sit next to her, patting her back sympathetically.

"Mrs. Rouse," Pete says, and she looks up. "We're sorry for your loss, ma'am - I can only imagine losing a child like this - but we need as much information as possible. So we can stop this guy before more mothers lose their children."

Mrs. Rouse nods, still tearful. "I'll answer any questions you have."

Pete offers her a small smile and pulls a notepad out.

* * *

**(Skipped a little here. Oh well. Warning for this next bit; a trans person is misgendered.)**

Matt's mother wasn't too much help, and Pete's hoping the Jimenez family will be a little better.

They sit down opposite of Tristan's mother, father, and sister - the same one who reported him missing.

"I'm Alejandra," the sister introduces herself. She's pretty, with long, wavy brown hair, parted in the middle. She's probably in her late twenties. She's also bouncing an overall-clad toddler on her knee. "This is my mother and father, Mariá and Carlos."

"I'm Lupé!" the toddler chirps.

Patrick smiles brightly at the kid. "You know, I have a friend named Lupe. Really cool guy."

The kid's two, so he just stares at Patrick with big, dark eyes.

Patrick blinks at the kid, then sticks his tongue out. The kid giggles and buries his face in his mom's shoulder. Alejandra smiles at Patrick.

Pete clasps his hands together and sits forward. "Alright, so let's get to business. Mr. and Mrs. Jimenez, it's very nice to meet you."

They both smile and shake hands with Pete and Patrick. Mariá's a pretty but weathered woman, around sixty. She looks very tired. Carlos has a greying mustache, and his hands are rough and scarred. Laborer of some type.

"Their English isn't the best, so I'll be translating," Alejandra says.

"Great, thank you," Pete says, even though Patrick's fluent and Pete speaks a fair bit of Spanish. "Mrs. Jimenez. What can you tell us about your son?"

Alejandra translates, and Pete notices that she changes 'son' to 'daughter'. He resists the urge to frown at Patrick.

Mariá presses her thin lips together before speaking, with a heavy but intelligible accent. "Isabella was a beautiful young woman. She was, ah. _Creativo y talentoso._ "

"You weren't very close with Tristan in recent years, were you?" Patrick asks, eyes narrowed, and Pete's a little concerned he's gonna get snap at them. Nothing pisses Patrick off more than disrespect - which is not good if you're a cop. 

* * *

**(That's all I wrote! Blegh. Although, here's notes I wrote myself, 'cause I think it's kinda cute. I think on the victims it's date disappeared, date body was found, name, hair color, ethnicity, age. Yeah.)**

victims

  * oct 7, oct 9 matt rouse (blonde, white, age19)
  * oct 23, nov 4 tristan jimenez (brown, mexican, age23)
  * nov 25, jan 18 alexander "aj" jacobson (brown, white, age26)
  * jan 8, jan 17 micah jones (blonde, white, age21)
  * jan 26, feb 2 andrew su lee (black, chinese, age23)
  * feb 19, march 3rd unknown (brown, guadelaman, age24)



team

  * Supervisory Special Agents: Mark Hoppus & Billie Joe Armstrong (Hotch & Rossi)
  * Senior Special Agent: Andy & Dr. Ryan Ross (Morgan & Reid) + Pete & Patrick
  * Communications Liason: Hayley (JJ)
  * Technical Analyst: Tyler (Garcia)



joe is pstumps bf hes an accountant

suspects - gee way, mikey way, gabe

actual killer - thomas hill (oc)

date - at start, march 8


	14. (Someone Told Me) Stay Away From Things That Aren't Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete VS Gabe - Who can fuck more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title's from Melanie Martinez, who I know is a piece of shit, but the title fits so perfectly. Let it be a reminder of the pre-apocalyptic world of late 2015. 
> 
> So this is kind of a rip off of another fic I read in another fandom years ago but, I mean, it's smut, and I don't know how much you can rip off porn. And besides, the general idea of a sex battle is the same, but the rest is original. So I dunno.
> 
> According to this completely fictional fic, Gabe Saporta invented the word 'yass'. The more you know. I'll admit, this is probably one of the most entertaining fics I ever wrote. In the beginning, anyway. Then it gets Heavy.
> 
> This was gonna be Gabe and Pete fucking Patrick, Andy, Joe, Alex, Suarez, Nate, Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, Jon, William, Carden, Sisky, Chislett, Butcher, Bob, Chris, AND Darren. Can you believe that? Should I be glad I never got passed the introduction? I was dedicated, though, albeit briefly - even made the contracts! Ahhhh!

"Five thousand dollars," Gabe drawls, dangling half out of the top bunk he's squeezed into, "that I can fuck - no, fuck that - _seduce_ and then bed more of the guys on the label that you can."

They're totally drunk as hell. So drunk that Pete doesn't immediately understand what the fuck Gabe is going on about. So he just giggles from his spot in his own bunk. Gabe had crawled into Charlie's and was hanging out of it like some kind of six and a half foot tall monkey.

"No, for serious, Peter the Third," Gabe says. "Nobody's off limits. Girls are included. Fuck as many label mates as possible. Yes? Yes."

"Only girls on the label are Victoria and Greta, and they're both like little sisters," Pete responds. His vision's a little blurry; he hasn't gotten smashed in months.

"Fine, excluding ladies, Pete the _Turd_." Gabe taps his chin contemplatively. He's hanging upside down still; all the blood's probably gone to his head. "Only thing that counts is actual, genuine, motherfuckin' buttsex. You can't get a blowjay and count the guy. Shit counts as foreplay. Anal or nothing, dude."

Pete shakes his head. Gabe's insane. "How we gonna prove it?"

Gabe swings himself up and hits his head on the roof of the bunk. He yells, then rubs his head and starts laughing when Pete does. For a minute it's nothing but Gabe's weird sharp inhale thing that somehow counts as laughter, and Pete's braying laugh. Abruptly, Gabe sobers. "Nah, okay, dude, seriously. _Details_ , man. Shit you couldn't make up. Little things, you know. Repeats count, by the way. You could fuck someone, then I could fuck them. Still counts. As many in a week as we can."

Pete brushes his greasy hair out of his eye. He hasn't showered in days. He would right now, but he's worried about passing out while showering and drowning as a result. He's read too many articles on freaky shit like that. "You're fucking crazy, Saporta, you really fuckin' are-"

"It'll be fun! Five kay on the line, no biggie! Un _clench_ , Wentz!" Then the fucker decides that should be a song and starts singing, "Unclench, Wentz, unclench, Wentz!" and then he can't think of something that rhymes with that, so he turns his hat around on his head and raps, like a Fresh Prince wannabe, "Hey, you know, if you listen here, just take a brief moment, then we'll have another beer! We can get some ass, it'll be a blast! Five kay on the line, and all you gotta say is 'fine'!"

Pete snorts. "I'm glad Travie's fronting Gym Class and not you."

"Fuck you, my flow is sick, dawg!"

Pete shakes his head and laughs.

"No, but seriously," Gabe says, serious once more. "C'mon, man, don't be a fuckin' killjoy. Write a fuckin' contract up right now. Let's do it. Sign that shit and start fucking."

Pete rolls his eyes, then gets put of bed and unsteadily walks over to where his lyric notebook is sitting, closed and inconspicuous. He should stop leaving it out, Hemmy's gonna get a hold of it one of these days. He grabs it, pulls the pencil out of the spiral part, and trots back to the bunks. The bus is theirs for a while; Patrick's on the Cobra bus, working on some instrumental stuff, and Joe and Andy and most of the crew are out on the town. Pete and Gabe passed up the offer to join them in favor of getting wasted. Third day of Honda Civic Tour, and no show tomorrow - calls for a special occasion.

Gabe makes grabby hands for the notebook and Pete hands it to him and cranes his head to watch in dismay as Gabe, sitting cross legged and hunched so he doesn't hit his head, goes immediately to a back page and starts scribbling. Pete's too short to see, but it doesn't matter, because soon enough, Gabe hands the notebook back down to Pete.

Pete squints down at it. His vision's hazy and swimming, and the letters are moving and blurred. He holds it close to his face and is still barely able to read Gabe's chickenscratch.

Aside from the messy handwriting and the dumb emoticon, it's alarmingly official-looking. Pete looks up at Gabe. "You're serious about this?"

"Fuck yeah! May the hottest fuckin' dude win!" Gabe's grinning like an imbecile, but suddenly he frowns and grabs for the notebook. "Hold up."

He scribbles something by the rules section, then hands the notebook back to Pete.

" _'You have to top'',_ " Pete reads. "Why'd you add that?"

"'Cause I think it's fair. You're not using your emo twink powers to beat me. We both gotta get these dudes to bend over for us, consensusually. Con-consesus. Consent! But plural!"

"You're so fuckin' wasted, dude. _Consensually_."

"Yeah, that! No creepy shit, they gotta willingly hop in bed with you."

"You're tellin' _me_ no creepy shit, Mr. Basement Guy-"

"Peter Weetz, you introduced Memories the other day by saying it was about wanting to eat your girlfriend."

"There's a difference between being creepy and being Pete Wentz. I'm uncategorizable, alright? I'm my own brand of ominous.

"Alright, Yeezy, whatever. Tight ass pants are swellin' your dick and your ego. You game or not, man?"

Pete squints down at the notebook. Fuck it, he thinks. They'll forget about this tomorrow.

"Only Decaydance dudes?"

Gabe nods.

Pete scowls. Then he signs where he's supposed to.

Gabe shouts and grabs it from him, waving the notebook violently. "Fuck yeah, shit's gonna be so good!"

Gabe blabs about who he's gonna bed for two more hours, and Pete passes out some time after 2am. He wakes up to Joe shaking him awake and laughing his ass off. Gabe's drawn a huge dick on his stomach, and he's written 'penis' across his forehead. Very original. Pete's more concerned with the pounding headache he has.

He doesn't remember Gabe's proposal at all. Neither does Gabe.

Over a month goes by before they remember the deal. Pete's idly flipping through his notebook when he comes across the contract. He reads over it, stares at it in disbelief, then takes his notebook and his phone and locks himself in the bathroom.

He closes the toilet lid and takes a seat. Gabe answers on the third ring.

"Yo, Pentz Wentz, what's up, my dude?"

"Remember when we got drunk a couple weeks back?"

"Depends, dude. I get drunk a lot, I don't remember specific, like, dates and shit-"

"Third day of tour. You wrote 'penis' on my forehead and it wouldn't wash off."

"Oh! Heh, okay, yeah. What of it?"

"Well, apparently we made some kind of deal - we even signed a contract. Uh, it's, like, who can fuck as many of the dudes on our label as possible. We signed it, man. Both of us."

Gabe laughs on the other end. "Dude, I've had that idea for two years, I can't believe I finally got the balls to suggest it."

"We were smashed. Liquid courage. Want me to rip it up?"

"Fuck no! There's nine days of tour left, let's fucking go, dude!"

Pete sighs. "You're fucking serious about this?"

"Hell yeah, I am! We'll finally determine the alpha male of Decaydance!"

"I own Decaydance, I think that automatically makes the the alpha male."

"I will fight for this title."

Pete rolls his eyes. "Gabe, fucking your friends isn't a good idea. Trust me. It always ends bad."

"Yeah, like, I don't care. How much money's on the line?"

"Five thousand."

Pete can hear Gabe's grin. "Dude, I'm coming over. We gotta handshake on this shit."

"I'm not doing it. It's gonna fuck things up."

"Don't be a pussy! You signed a contract, don't be a little bitch and back out-"

Pete grits his teeth. He hates going back on agreements. "You're an asshole, Saporta, you really are."

Gabe giggles. "I know. I'll meet you in your bus in ten."

Pete huffs. "Fucking bullshit, Gabe."

"May the best man win!"

* * *

 

Day One

They work out the details, but it's not much different than what's on the contract. They have to call each other or meet every morning to discuss if they got anyone the night before. Gabe bitches about not being able to fuck anyone in Gym Class because they're all too "toppy", and complains because the Panic! guys are in a tiny cabin in the mountains.

"They're all fucking twinks, except maybe Jon. I could bone all of 'em if I wanted. Too bad they're hotboxing a cabin in Nevada. Jesus fucking Christ. They have beards! They're all grown up!" Gabe's pacing back in forth on the bus, which is empty again. Patrick's living on the Cobra bus at this point. They're doing instrumental stuff, just playing with songs and sounds, and Gabe's supervising, but he'll be more involved once this tour's finished and they have an actual studio to work in. Everyone else is doing their jobs; out getting ready for tonight's show. Pete has no fucking idea where Joe is. "Dude, what, we're in Phoenix, right? We have a show in Vegas soon, we could visit them-"

"Hell no," Pete says. "You're not having an orgy with Panic in their cabin, you fuckin' sex freak."

Gabe pouts. Then he grins. "I'm gonna call Bilvy, he'll let me pound him. It's been a while, but he's probably down."

* * *

**(Skipped to a dramatic bit, a few days later.)**

"Patrick," Gabe says. Pete stops in his tracks. "My sixth was Patrick."

Pete turns around. "You fucking didn't, you seedy fuck-"

Gabe grins, and for the first time, Pete understands why Gabe's always the bad guy in fanfics. "We were working on music, and I started complimenting him, and then I kissed him, and he kissed back, and in a matter of minutes he was fucking his own fingers and sitting on my dick."

"You piece of shit! Patrick's off limits, you fucking know that!"

"Contract didn't specify," Gabe grins, and Pete swears he can see the fires of hell burning in his dark eyes. "He's a fiesty little shit, he pulled my hair and told me I couldn't come before him or I wouldn't come at all."

Pete's never fucked Patrick. He couldn't. He's kind of in love with him - sex would fuck everything up. But he knows Patrick fucks dudes sometimes, and he knows he'd never turn down a hot male musician who was coming onto him. He just can't believe Gabe would even try.

"Need more proof?"

"I've heard enough," Pete snaps. "God, I should fucking punch the fuck out of you, you piece of shit. How could you do that to Patrick?"

"Little guy loved it," Gabe shrugs. "Sucked me off like it was his last meal. I think he liked how big I am, if you know what I mean. Tiny guy like him? Real size queen."

"Enough," Pete repeats, disgusted. Not by the descriptions of the act itself, which is in itself kind of arousing; by Gabe's behavior. "I can't believe you."

* * *

**That's all I wrote. But I did make a finished letter, too. Look:**


	15. You Have the Right to be an Attorney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 21 Jump Street AU!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's one of my favorite movies, so I started writing this... originally, it was gonna be Andy and Pete, but Gabe worked better. 
> 
> Some info, so you get what's going on, since I never wrote the scenes where things would've been explained: Pete's undercover name is Ethan Mitchell, and Gabe's is Anthony "Tony" Mitchell. They're supposed to be brothers. They're, like, around 22, but they're pretending to be a junior and a senior.
> 
> Patrick and Bill are seventeen, and aren't aware that Pete&Gabe are actually adults, so, like, warning for that, 'cause that's kinda Bad. Don't trick teens into thinking you're a teen, too, if you're actually 20+. That's shitty as hell and inexcusable. It's a fic that I wrote when I was fifteen, so that's why it was written at all, but just know modern!me don't approve of it. 
> 
> Mark Hoppus would've been Ice Cube's character (although I never got around to writing him), and Andy is Nick Offerman's. Yep.

"Jump Street," Pete repeats. He raises his eyebrows. "21 Jump Street. Like, Johnny Depp, Pete DeLuise, that old cop show? Like that?"

"Exactly like that," Deputy Chief Andy Hurley says, eyeing Gabe as he types away at his phone, despite the fact that he's kind of in danger of losing his job. "Saporta-"

"Dumbass," Pete says, grabbing the phone from Gabe and stuffing it between his legs. Gabe, who doesn't seem to realize that it's important to mind your manners when you're in your boss' office, goes for it anyway, and Chief Hurley sighs because Gabe's pretty much groping Pete's dick.

"You guys are fucking perfect," he says. "Wentz, Saporta, pay attention, for your own sakes."

Gabe gets his phone back and stuffs it into his back pocket before returning his attention to Hurley with a nod. Pete makes a face at him, then looks at his superior, too.

"Okay," Hurley says, exhaling out loud and shaking his head. "As I was saying - yes, just like the show. You're going undercover as high school students."

"I'm too tall to be a high school student," Gabe says. "He's too short," he adds, shoving Pete.

Pete lands a hard hit to Gabe's balls, and Gabe makes a choked, high pitched sound.

"You're both fine. And you're doing it, because your only other option is being fired, and I'm sure you don't want that. You're pretty much useless to us, so consider yourselves lucky we're giving you this gig at all."

"Because you gave us lame park duty." Gabe's looking down at his crotch, concern on his face. "If we were out there kicking serious bad guy ass, we'd be totally useful."

Hurley sits back, unamused. "Well, here's your chance to kick bad guy ass."

"By busting kids who smoke weed?" Pete asks.

"By busting drug dealers trying to profit off of an illegal and impressionable audience."

"Ah," Gabe and Pete say together.

Hurley closes his eyes and rubs at his temples.

* * *

**(I SKIPPED AN ENTIRE FIC TO GET TO THE SMUT THAT'S HOW HORNY ON MAIN I USED TO BE BAH HAH HERE'S GABE & BILVY ALMOST HOOKING UP BUT STOPPING POSSIBLY CUZ I HAD SOME MORALS)**

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not usually, shit, I'm so sorry-"

"Dude, chill," Gabe says, pushing at Bill's shoulders gently. He's trying not to laugh, because laughing would be a dick move right now, when Bill's obviously close to tears, but it's hard because he's Gabe, and, well, his first instinct is to laugh it off. "You're okay, man."

Bill wipes at his face with a bony little wrist. His cheeks are flushed, from humiliation or inebriation, possibly both. "I just - I really like you, Tony Mitchell, and I think you're really awesome, but I'm a fucking idiot, I don't-"

"Shh," Gabe says. "Don't call yourself an idiot."

"But I am. I'm a fucking - I'm a mess, look at me."

"You're drunk, dude. That's okay."

* * *

**(Then I got bored once I decided to go the comfort/friendship route, ahaha.** **Okay, a bit of background for that scene and this next one: basically, they went to** **a party and Bill & Rick got smashed and both separately attempted to seduce their respective love interests. And this was gonna be, like, towards the end of the fic, they were gonna bond first, I swear.)**

"You're a floosy," Pete notes, watching Patrick trip over his own pants in his effort to get them off. He's wearing black boxer briefs, but Pete can see the outline of his dick through them, as well as his thighs, and they're kind of really pale and perfect. Pete licks his lips.

Patrick trips trying to get his right foot out of his pants, and he falls face down and just lays there. Then Pete sees he's laughing; Patrick turns his head and the smile on his face is clear. "I'm really drunk, huh," he says.

"Yeah," Pete says, "and if I kick you out, you're gonna end up either on someone's lap, or in front of someone's toilet, so I'm gonna keep an eye on you, okay?"

"Uh huh," Patrick says, then drops his head again.

Pete pulls him to his feet, but then Patrick slips again and he's falling, taking Pete down with him. They both end up on the ground, Patrick giggling and Pete groaning because he hit his head on the bed on the way down.

"Y'know," Patrick says suddenly, seriously, popping himself up on his elbow and grinning at Pete, "y'know, you're kinda hot."

"And you're kinda drunk," Pete says. "I'm not letting you do anything you'll regret in the morning."

"Ethan," Patrick whines, rolling over and smushing his nose into Pete's neck.

"What?"

"Ethan," Patrick says again.

"Yeah," Pete says, glancing down at him. He licks his lips before he can help it; Patrick's own are red and so are his cheeks and he looks like debauched jailbait and Pete's never been good at controlling his urges.

"I, like. I totally flirt with you in Government, um, do you notice that? I'm not, um. I'm. I'm not subtle about it, I just, I'm, uh. I like you a lot, Ethan, and I hate you because you confuse me, like I always thought I was straight - I used to imagine a pretty wife and a picture perfect house and a cute little baby, or whatever, but, like, you, I like you so much, I'm not, like, in love with you or anything, but I really, really like you, and, um, I - I was - I-"

"Patrick," Pete cuts in. Patrick looks up. Pete pushes Patrick's glasses up his nose, because they're falling off. "You're drunk, Patrick."

"Yeah, I know."

**(And that's all ;-;)**


	16. Blooming in Adversity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a good ol' fashion genderbend, which is an extremely outdated term, and fairly problematic trope, but oh well. Essentially, Patrick's a cis!girl (Trish). Due to the nature of the Chicago's rock scene, she fakes being a boy for one night - but then she accidentally joins Pete Wentz' band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title's derived from Mulan, because this little nugget here has been titled 'Modern Day Mulan' in my drafts since May 2015! So there's that.
> 
> Everyone's their usual gender in this, except Patrick and Bill Beckett (Bill is Becca in this).

"They won't let me in." Trish slams the door as she walks in, a scowl set on her full but chapped lips and a trucker's cap shoved down on top of her messy blonde hair. She throws her bag down and hops onto Becca's bed, not bothering to take off her mud-caked, once-white Nikes. "The fucking clubs, they won't let me in."

Becca barely bothers to look up from her laptop. "Why?"

"Because I look like fucking Tinkerbell, and they don't want me in a room full of big, moshing metalhead men? I dunno, and also because I'm sixteen and I don't even have a fake ID? Not that they'd believe it if they saw it."

"Drop the sass, Stump, I - oh my gosh, look."

Trish glances at Becca's computer when it's turned towards her, and a slim blonde eyebrow shoots up on its own accord. On the laptop is a LiveJournal page, displaying a picture of a underground legend. "Pete Wentz?"

"He's hot," Becca says dreamily, straining to look at the laptop and faun over him. "Arma Angelus, that's his band right now - you ever heard of them?"

"Of course I have," Trish says, staring at the picture of Pete. He's shirtless and grinning his horsey smile at something past the camera. He's not even that hot - his abs aren't remarkable, his face is mediocre at best, his teeth are a total turn off, he's apparently the angsiest guy ever, and his screaming is just plain annoying - but Trish can admit she's attracted to him. He's got confidence she could never have, and the fact that he's practically famous is a huge plus.

"There's a show next Saturday," Becca says casually. "Their last. I'm going. You should come with."

"Saturday, huh?"

"Saturday, yeah, you coming or not?"

* * *

**(Skipped, like, a huge chunk of exposition - essentially, Trish went to meet Pete on Saturday, as mentioned above, and wasn't taken seriously. So this is immediately after - she's realized if she wants to go anywhere as a musician, she'll have to do what it takes. I dunno, not super logical, but I ran with it.)**

"Mom, I want a haircut," Trish says. When her mom doesn't answer, she adds, "Like, boy-short. I'm tired of dealing with it in the mornings."

Patricia Sr. stops washing dishes, even turns off the water, and turns to consider her daughter. She frowns for a minute, obviously thinking, then slowly says, "Honey, you're straight, right?"

Trish snorts. Not really, no. Guys are cool, but girls really aren't so bad - she's pretty sure she's bi, but her mom doesn't have to know what Trish doesn't even know for sure herself. "Yeah, Mom," she says. "I'm not a lesbian, no worries, I just - it's hard to deal with, y'know?"

"You always wear a hat, so why's it matter?"

"'Cause if I don't have a hat on, it looks terrible. Please?"

Her mom shrugs. "I guess, hun. You can go right now, if you want. Just be home by dinner."

"Awesome! Thanks, Mom!" Trish gives her a kiss on the cheek and is off.

* * *

**(Skip...again? A later attempt at passing better. She's remedying mistakes she made the first few times... you know, I came out as agender two years after I wrote this and now present fairly masc, so I wonder if this was me projecting, hahaha.)**

Trish looks down at the binder. It's pretty tight, not tight enough to choke her, but tight enough to be uncomfortable, but her chest looks flat and she's pretty satisfied with the resent. She pulls her men's Bowie shirt on, then one of Pete's Clandestine hoodies. He's trying to launch a clothing line; it's ridiculous, and what Trish currently has on is black and purple striped with the bartskull thing on the breast, but whatever, she's just representing.

She pulls boxers on, over her own boy shorts, and stuffs a sock down them - after discreetly glancing around at her band mate's crotches after the last show, she came to the conclusion that not having a bulge at any point during the three hours they performed was pretty unusual - then pulls her jeans up. They were baggy, too baggy for her taste, but they hid her feminine hips and her ass. She didn't bother with a belt, though the jeans barely clung to her hips. Her brother's old size nine Vans, that really didn't fit her - "You're feet are fucking tiny," Joe had remarked, poking at the heel of her normal Converse, "how the fuck are your feet that small?" - and a trucker hat followed, and then she was done.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and shook her head. _I feel like Patrick_ , she found herself thinking, then scoffed. _Patrick isn't real, Patrick is nothing but a facade - shut up._

* * *

**(There was gonna be a scene in this where Trish starts to hook up with a female tech, but then the tech realizes Trish is a girl and she's straight so she's like "ehh nah", but then they were gonna become friends, and the tech was gonna be Vicky T, but then that didn't happen, and I'm glad 'cause Victrorica is now Cancelled lmao.)**

* * *

**(So idk what the fuck my ass was thinking, but this was gonna be the epilogue and I hate it v much. If I'd wrote this now, I'd go the trans route, but whatever. 2015 me bein' problematic. Smdh.)**

"So where did Fall Out Boy come from?" the interviewer asks, gesturing to them as a whole, "when one of you isn't, you know, a boy?"

"Fall Out Boys Plus Girl," Joe says, and Trish and the interviewer both laugh awkwardly.

"Funny story, actually," Pete says. "Trish, you wanna-?"

"Yeah, sure." She takes a deep breath, frowns, then says, "Okay, so I was sixteen when we started this band, and, well, I'm a girl and nobody wants underaged girls in bars trying to get in bands with big, tatted up guys. You know? So, in my delusional, dramatic little teenage head, I decide cross dressing is gonna answer my problems. So I cut my hair, hide my boobs, call myself Patrick, and meet these losers, who I end up in a band with. And then-"

"Wait," the interviewer says. "So how did you two-?" She gestures at Pete and Trish.

Pete grins crookedly. "Well, I pretty much don't care about gender, right? I just kind of like whoever, so here comes this ridiculously pretty guy with an incredible singing voice, and I just kind of fell head over Vans for her, even though I thought she was a he at the time. So when we discovered Patrick was actually Patricia, I was psyched because, y'know, if she was actually a guy, I wouldn't have cared, but her being female makes being a couple so much easier in the public's eye, y'know? I dunno, it worked out well, I guess."

The interviewer smiles. "That's an amazing story, wow, I'm honored your first time sharing that was here! So, how about you two?" she asks, glancing at Joe and Andy. "Any lovers."

"I'm banging Britney Spears," Joe deadpans.

"He is," Pete agreed. "She shaved her hair off because she decided Joe had enough for both of them. Not just on his head."

Trish ruffles his hair with a grin, and Joe says, "Nah, I love Britney, but I haven't had the chance to tap that yet, so. I have a girlfriend, though. She's pretty and awesome, so that's cool."

They all look at Andy, who shrugs. "I think I'm married to the straight edge life at this point."


	17. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bb!Patrick gets sex pollened up and he gets handed over to Joe while Pete and Andy watch because he's still underage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago I saw an unfilled prompt in LiveJournal (Anonymous Love Fest, my fav) that was like "bb!Patrick gets sex pollened up and he gets handed over to Joe while Pete and Andy watch because he's still underage." I'd been wanting to write omegaverse for a while so that and the prompt clashed and this was born, circa early 2016. Jesus Christ. It's so ironic I went from being obsessed with smut, both writing and reading it, and now I have little to no interest in it. I dunno. Here.
> 
> I just wanna add, me writing smut about sixteen year olds was okay then 'cause I was fifteen/sixteen, but reading this now that I turn eighteen in a few weeks is very uncomfortable. Damn.

He should seriously be asleep right now.

They're in Monroe, Wisconsin, and they're all staying in Andy's friend's house for the night - they've got a show in Madison tomorrow, and he's exhausted already, so Patrick should really be passed the fuck out right now. But he can't fall asleep, not when he's painfully aware of foreign heat spreading through his groin. He shifts, uncomfortable, assuming he's just hot - but when he shoves the blanket off himself, and the cool air hits his bare arms and legs, the heat doesn't go away. If anything, it intensifies until he feels sweat on his forehead.

He can't see anything in the basement's dim lighting, but he knows Andy's next to him on the air mattress, and he can hear Joe snoring and Pete mumbling in his sleep from the couch. Suddenly everything seems too loud; Andy's a pretty quiet sleeper, but he tends to breath heavily, and Patrick suddenly feels ultra-aware of it. It's like the burn in his groin intensifies every time Andy exhales, and he breathes steadily, in and out every three seconds, so in minutes Patrick's drenched in sweat and breathing hard.

After a few minutes of laying there, squirming a little, he's vaguely aware that he's hard, and leaking at that. He reaches down to palm his cock through his boxers, and he can barely contain his yelp when the contact literally shocks him.

And then he feels it. He reaches down and lifts his hips, feeling underneath himself, and yeah, his briefs are soaked. He reaches into them and touches tentatively at his hole; he's wet, dripping almost.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head and swallowing hard, "no, no, no." _I can't be a fucking omega, goddamnit, no!_

And that's when the want hits, the rabid desire to get fucked until he can't see straight, and he's whimpering before he can help it. He's a virgin, he hasn't even had his dick sucked, but he always figured that that was alright because he was only sixteen - except now all he can think about is someone fucking him, someone filling him up until he can't think, can't breathe.

He breathes harshly, teasing himself by pressing two of his fingertips into his hole. Electricity courses through him when he does and he whines, forcing his hips down onto his fingers. He's never felt anything better; his eyes actually roll a little with how good it feels, how good being two fingers to the first knuckle deep feels. He thrusts the digits into himself again, writhing on his own hand, and he must moan out loud, because he doesn't even notice, but Pete's murmuring has stopped, and then his voice cuts through the silence, and he says, "Patrick? Is that you? Are you okay?"

Patrick moans at the sound of his voice, how it's rough because he just woke up, and thumps his head back against his pillow, hips working down hard against his fingers. He can't even bring himself to answer, he just licks his lips and slides a third finger into himself, gasping loud without meaning to.

He hears but doesn't pay attention to the sound of Pete's bare feet padding against the carpet, but then the lights are going on, and Pete's squinting at him from the stairs, scratching lightly at his bare stomach. Patrick, in his state of delirious desire, groans at the sight of a shirtless Pete in boxers, messy hair and two day-old eyeliner and all. He screws his eyes shut, can't even stop himself from moaning.

"Dude," Pete says, and he's suddenly a lot closer, and Patrick opens his eyes to see him standing over him, eyes wide and mouth open. "Dude, holy shit, are you okay? You look, you look fucking wild, dude, like, like feral or something."

Patrick clenches around his own fingers, loving the burn of it, and he barely manages to get out, "I - I think I'm in heat." He sounds like a mess, voice high and choked but raspy. He wants to be filled up, needs it, and his eyes are fixed on the slight bulge in Pete's boxers. He's never wanted to fuck Pete before, never wanted to fuck any guy, really, but he suddenly wants Pete to fuck him and take him and claim him more than anything. "I - can you fuck me, please, I'm so, I need it, please."

Pete's eyes are big brown saucers, and he softly says, "Um, I'm kind of not an alpha, I'm a beta, um."

"I don't care," Patrick groans, pulling his fingers out and then slamming them back into himself. His fingers catch his prostate and then he's coming, after not once touching his cock, clenching so tight around his fingers, come spurting onto his belly, body going tense and mouth going slack, whining high in his throat. When he opens his eyes again, Pete's gaping at him, the bulge in his underwear significantly larger, and Patrick still burns everywhere. He pulls his fingers out, and then the need is back full-force, coursing through him, and he cries out in frustration.

"Holy shit," Pete says, dumbly.

Andy finally comes to just then, stirring beside Patrick before blinking awake. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, looking confused, then sits up fast and stares down at Patrick. "Oh," he says softly, looking down at Patrick's body before he's looking into his eyes. "Are you in heat? Is this the first time?"

Patrick nods weakly - he's so desperate, he's looking down at Andy, who's shirtless, too, and he sees tattoos and whispy red hair leading into tight boxers and at this point he's not even horny, he just really needs dick, and immediately. He's never even really been attracted to Andy, never liked him as more than a friend, but he's suddenly so desperate to climb on top of him and slide down onto his dick - it's big, he knows, he can see the bulge, it's huge, it'd fill him right up - that he feels lightheaded.

Andy's hand touches his forehead, and he nearly cries out at the contact. Andy withdraws his hand instantly. "What do you need?" he asks, and he always assumed Andy was an alpha, but he must not be because he doesn't seem like he wants to jump Patrick at all.

Patrick whimpers. "I - I need something, something there," he says, pointing down between his legs, and he'd flush bright red if he could have the decency to. "It's getting worse."

"What's going on?" Joe suddenly says, and they all look at him, sitting up on the love seat he'd been sprawled out on. "What's - dude, the fuck is that smell" He turns to look at Patrick, and his eyebrows shoot up. "You're an omega?"

Patrick feels like he's on fire under all their worried gazes. He feels like he might die. Everything burns. It's unbearable. It's not painful, in the typical sense, it's just rabid desire.

"He's in heat," Pete says, biting down on his lip hard. "Fuck, what - do we do something?" He squats down next to Patrick, ghosts his hand across his cheek, and Patrick closes his eyes tight and pants, he can't help it, he _needs_. Pete rubs at Patrick's bottom lip, the fucking idiot, and that's it, something sparks and Patrick jumps him, clinging to his side and crying out when his cock presses to Pete's skinny stomach. Pete shouts, Andy stares at Patrick likes he's a feral animal, which he kind of is, and Joe finally comes over and squats beside them. "Pete," Patrick's crying, actual tears falling down his cheeks, "oh my God, fuck, I'm - I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Fuck!" Pete says loudly, pushing Patrick away from him hard. Patrick whines, and his whole body is trembling, pupils blown and mouth wet. "No," Pete tells him sternly, like he's scolding a dog, and then he shoves him at Joe. "Here," he says, quickly backing up and scrambling backwards until he's seated on the couch.

"I don't want him!" Joe yells, pushing at Patrick, who immediately wraps his legs around Joe's waist and licks at his neck, rutting against him and groaning.

"Joe, please, please, I'm sorry, really sorry but I, I need - please," Patrick cries.

"Just fuck him, stop being a little bitch," Pete says, frowning deeply at Patrick as he mouths wetly at Joe's cheek. "He needs it, Joe."

"We can get, what do you call them, heat suppressants!" When Pete scowls at him, Joe bites his lip and looks down at Patrick. "I don't want to fuck him!"

"If Pete or I did it, it'd be statuary," Andy tells Joe gently, eyebrows knitted, "you have to, Joe."

"I'm not even - I don't even know what I am yet," Joe protests weakly.

"You don't have to be an alpha. He doesn't need to be knotted the first time, I don't think," Pete says, uncertainly, looking to Andy for confirmation. Andy nods, and Pete continues, "Just fuck him once, maybe a couple times. Just try to fix him, Joe."

"I don't have the energy to do that," Joe says. "I just woke up!"

Patrick's whining high in his throat, so, so fucking desperate. "Joe, please," he begs, "I -anything, I need  _some_ thing."

"Let's shove a cucumber up his ass or something!" Joe says, grabbing at Patrick's hips to try to push him away. Patrick cries out at the feel of hands on him.

"Joe," Andy says, voice tight, and Joe looks at him. Andy's eyes are sympathetic. "Just do it."

Joe looks at Patrick, at how his pretty face is contorted and his mouth is so fucking red, and he nods and says, "Patrick? Dude, look at me." Patrick opens his eyes - barely any blue, they're nearly black - and Joe tells him, "I'll take care of you, okay?"

Patrick nods vehemently, cries, "Thank you, oh my God, I love you, dude, I'm sorry-"

"It's okay," Joe says, glaring at Pete and Andy. Pete's chewing on his lip, staring at Patrick with hungry but concerned eyes, and Andy's watching Patrick warily. "I need you, um. Hands and knees, okay? So, like, take your underwear off."

"Yeah," Patrick says, "yeah, yeah, okay." He scrambles out of his boxers - soaked in the front and back now, ruined. Patrick forgets about modesty and he gets on all fours and spreads his legs, so his dripping hole is completely exposed, back bowed.

"Fuck," Pete says breathlessly, moving to stand behind Joe to get a better look. "Dude, he's so - so ready, holy shit." He reaches out to touch, but Andy's on him, pulling his hand back. 

"Joe, please," Patrick begs, and Joe licks his lips and touches Patrick's hole tentatively, rubs a little with his pointer and middle fingers. Patrick bucks back, and two Joe's fingers slide inside.

"God," Joe whispers as Patrick moves back against him, making desperate little noises. "You're so wet, Patrick."

"Fuck me," Patrick gasps, and he's shaking, trembling everywhere. "I don't, I don't need prep, just put it in me, Jesus, fuck-"

Joe pulls his fingers out and wipes them carelessly on his boxers, before he's getting out of them, throwing them to the side and then settling behind Patrick, fingers curling around his hips. He lets go to reach down and give himself a few strokes, and then he's guiding himself into Patrick, sinking in deep. The sound Patrick lets out makes Andy turn a bit red, Joe give a harsh thrust, and Pete flat out groans.

Patrick's shaking, letting out little "oh, oh, oh"s every time Joe thrusts into him. Pete's jerking off by now, the shameless motherfucker, and Andy's watching Patrick and Joe's faces, always the caretaker of the four. Patrick's pretty much a sobbing mess, and Joe's cursing and gritting his teeth and fucking into Patrick as hard as he can muster. He twists his mouth to the side. "He's, uh, really wet, there's like no friction."

"Harder," Patrick whimpers, his eyes clenching shut. Joe fists a hand in Patrick's hair, tugging and obliging by working his hips faster into Patrick.

"Wait, fuck," he says, stopping suddenly, and Pete and Patrick both start protesting. "No, seriously, fuck, should we be using a condom? What if I knock him up?"

"Only alphas can impregnate omegas," Andy tells him, "don't worry."

That's something Patrick hadn't realized - he's capable of getting pregnant now. That's fucking insane, but he's too turned on to think about it right now.

"Okay, good," Joe says, and he starts fucking Patrick again, tilting Patrick's hips back until his cock is sliding smoothly against his prostate. And that's it - Patrick's shouting and spilling onto the blankets beneath him. Joe stares down at where he's still fucking into Patrick, licking his bottom lip and gasping at the squeeze and pulse of Patrick around him.

"Oh my God," Pete's panting, the fucking dickwad, coming over his hand, but nobody's paying attention. Andy's petting Patrick's hair, whispering to him, his voice soothing.

"Feel a little better?" he asks, stroking gentle fingers down the light shadow of Patrick's sideburns. 

"Not as desperate now," Patrick says, but his voice still sounds wrecked. "I think - think I need more. I'm really sorry, Joe, I'm so - fuck-"

"Go buy him something," Andy tells Pete, throwing the van keys and his wallet at him. 

Pete lifts his head, scowls at Andy with his dick still out. "What, like, a dildo or some shit? I'll gladly fuck him, man, just, like," he wraps a hand around his dick, starts jerking himself fast, "just gimme a sec, I can get it up again, watch."

"You're not fucking him, Pete," Andy says sternly. "He's underage. It's illegal and it's wrong."

"I can, like, I can finger him, can I finger him? That's not, my dick wouldn't be in him or anything-"

"You're not touching him," Andy says firmly. He turns his attention back to Patrick, who's red faced and shivering. "How're you doing, Patrick?"

"Need more," Patrick says weakly.

Joe's still inside Patrick, still posed behind him. "Can I, like, pull out, or should I, should I finish, or...?"

"Keep fucking him, maybe he'll come again and he'll be better," Andy says, sounding a little uncertain. He rubs Patrick's still-clothed back soothingly. It's soaked through with sweat. Patrick's breathing picks up a little.

Joe frowns, but he's still hard and he rolls his hips a little. Patrick arches, mumbling nonsensical pleas under his breath.

"What if he does need an alpha?" Pete says slowly, staring at where Joe's still buried deep in Patrick like he's hypnotized. Joe flushes a little and stops fucking Patrick - Patrick shifts his hips back impatiently. "What if he needs someone to knot him, someone to fill him up 'til he's full?"

"Are you offering to fuck him?" Joe asks, frowning at Pete. "Because you can replace me, like it's really fucking weird being ballsdeep in my buddy, so, uh."

"I'm not an alpha," Pete says, but he looks at Andy, quirking a suggestive eyebrow, "and you're not one, but I know someone who is."

"Is that someone his age?" Andy asks, scowling at Pete.

Joe's grunting a little, rutting into Patrick. He finally spills, or seems to, going rigid and giving a few final shoves into Patrick before slumping. Patrick's still hard; he'd never gone soft.

"Not enough," he whines. Joe sympathetically gives him a pat on the back and pulls out, wincing. Without someone to hold him up, Patrick falls down onto his face and moans pitifully, rutting against the sheets beneath him.

"Yes," Pete says to Andy, grinning. "I'm gonna give him a call and go buy condoms. Keep him away from your dick, Hurley."

* * *

 

**(Gah, I've only written Bilvy twice, and both are horribly OOC on opposite sides of a spectrum - my first attempt was whiny shy awkward Bill, and this one is like.... well, you'll see. Regardless, I could never successfully write him. Smh. Double funny here 'cause he would be fifteen and he acts like fuckin'... Christian Grey.... damn, what I'd give to go back in time and kick my own ass.)**

"You're lucky I happened to be in the area," William says, following Pete down the stairs. Pete's holding a bag and grinning. William's frowning down at where Joe and Andy are frowning at Patrick, who's curled up on the mattress, looking sweaty and miserable.

"Bill?" Joe asks, his eyebrows shooting up. "Bill Beckett of all people? You're an alpha?"

"Smells like one," Patrick rasps from the air mattress, lifting his head and licking his lips at the sight of William, standing there

"You reek," William says, squatting down besides Patrick. His nostrils flare a little and he puts his hand on Patrick's forehead; Patrick whines. "I'm suprised alphas weren't coming here in crowds. I smelt you from a mile away."

"Do you know how to fix him?" Joe asks, and he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "I fucked him because Andy and Pete are too old but he, he didn't get any better-"

"I'll knot him, and he'll be fine."

"Please," Patrick whimpers.

"What if you guys bond?" Pete asks, grabbing at William's shoulder as he starts to get his jacket off. "Are-"

"We won't bond, I know how to stop it," William says simply, tapping on Patrick's hip. "Roll over, come on."

Patrick rolls over instantly, on his hands and knees again.

"Fucking soaked," Bill says, smirking, running two fingers down the crack of Patrick's ass until they're dipping into his entrance. Patrick jerks, but he's silent.

Bill fucks him with two fingers, then three, then four, until Patrick's crying again and rolling his hips and begging, "Please, please, fuck me, please, I need it, please, please, fill me up-"

Bill's mouth is twisted to the side in concentration, and he wipes his brow with his free hand. He's in alpha mode right now - the other three guys are betas, but they can feel it, the way he's radiating control. "Anyone consider getting him a plug? Jesus, look at him. Fucking slut, he's desperate for it. Gagging for it. Probably wants someone to fuck his throat while I shove my knot up his ass so far, he sees stars. You want that, huh?" William, sweet, timid William, gives Patrick a hard slap on the ass, and Patrick comes again, letting out a little shriek as his body shakes.

"Right, good, he's still hard." William reaches around Patrick to touch his cock, which, yes, it's still not soft. He laughs and pulls his fingers out of Patrick and starts to take his own pants off. He slides his boxers down to his knees and stays on his knees behind Patrick, rolling a sturdy looking condom onto his cock. Then he's thrusting into Patrick, merciless in his execution, and the guys watch while Patrick gets fucked into the mattress. Pete's by Patrick's face, watching him pant and whimper as he's fucked, and he's jerking himself slow, whispering filth to Patrick about what he'll do to him when he's old enough, as if that's any less creepy. Andy and Joe are beside Bill, watching Patrick easily take Bill's growing erection.

"How big's it gonna get?" Andy asks William.

Bill digs his nails into Patrick's hips. "Pretty - fuck - pretty big. Fuck, I've never had a virgin before."

"He's not a virgin, I fucked him before you," Joe says.

Bill looks at him and chuckles. "How many times did he come before I got here?"

"Like three," Pete says. He's staring intently at Patrick, his free hand on his face, fingers pushing against his lips. "Three times, I mean." Patrick's tongue darts out to lick at his fingers, and Pete's breath hitches, his eyes impossibly dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO CRINGE.


	18. You're Ripped at Every Edge (But You're a Masterpiece)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know for certain when I wrote this because it was before Halsey's Badlands was even released (late August 2015). All we had were shitty quality live versions of her songs, haha. But there was this cover someone had made with just their voice and a ukulele and I was absolutely in love with it, and this fic came out of that. So that was around June 2015. Good time of my life. One of the best, honestly.
> 
> This was the first fic I wrote that I wasn't completely ashamed of. I thought it was dope as hell. Now, not so much, psh. Me writing Pete as a fucking pervert creep in all my old fics?? It's more likely than you think. Smdfh.

Pete doesn't really pick up strays anymore.

He used to all the time - young girls with too much eyeliner and not enough self esteem, even younger guys with dark hair to match dark pasts. But that life's pretty much behind him now. He's matured as a person, and he's realized he really doesn't want to end up in jail for fucking minors. He likes pretty young things, but most of the time, they're not worth it.

Until he sees the kid, not a day over sixteen, walking down Kedzie Avenue with a trucker cap on his head, a backpack on his shoulders, and a purpose to his walk.

Pete has to make an illegal u-turn to pull up beside him, but it's almost two am and it's not like there's really anyone out here to catch him do it. Or to protect this kid if some creep - one even worse than Pete - were to jump out and grab him. He's jailbait, and he definitely shouldn't be out this late.

He rolls his window down, tries to forget he's in an ominous white van, and says, "Hey, what are you doing out so late, kid?"

The boy doesn't answer, but he does glance at Pete and Pete gets a quick look at his face. He's pretty, not like the usual dark haired beauties Pete's broken in the past, but with unmarked pale skin and steely blue eyes and pretty pink lips. Pete can't see his hair, it's hidden from view by the collar of his jacket and a lame blue beanie, but Pete assumes he's blonde, by his golden eyebrows. Pete's never really been with a blonde before, but he's heard they're more fun.

He grins a little. "Not gonna answer me?"

The kid keeps walking, keeps staring straight ahead, and Pete's not gonna kidnap him or anything like that, but God he's pretty, and God, Pete just wants to take him home and fuck that pretty, young mouth. But he's not doing anything without consent - his days of drugging girls at parties are over, he's grown up and he's stopped that shit.

**(^ THAT'S ACTUALLY SOMETHING I WROTE JFC.)**

"You're gonna end up in a bad place if you stay out here," Pete says softly, and the boy's jaw tightens. "It's dangerous. These streets aren't safe. I know I'm a stranger, and I know I'm in a creepy van, and I could definitely take you home and take advantage of you, but you have to trust me when I say I'm not going to. I just don't wanna worry about you being out here alone when there's crazy old crack heads squatting literally ten feet away from you, in every direction, literally wherever you go."

"I'm not going home with you," the kid says tightly, and his voice is rough and ragged. Like he's been screaming. Or sucking dick. Pete grows even more worried.

"Kid, I swear to God, I'm not gonna hurt you, I want you to be safe. You seriously would rather be out here? Do you realize how dangerous the streets of Chicago are? Especially at night?"

The kid stops suddenly, and Pete does too, and watches the kid close his eyes and take a few deep breathes. Then he turns and puts his hand on the door. "Please don't turn out to be a serial killer or something."

"I'm not, I promise," Pete says. He unlocks the door, watches the kid clamber in, wincing like it hurts to do that. "What's your name?"

"Patrick," he says, slamming the door and setting his pack on his lap tenderly. He doesn't put his seat belt on. Pete doesn't bitch at him because his isn't on either and he's not a hypocrite. "And you're Ron, I'm guessing?"

Pete frowns, trying to figure out where he'd get that name from, but then he remembers this isn't his car and it must says someone's business details on the side. "Oh, no, I'm Pete. This isn't my car."

"You steal it?" Patrick asks with a wry smirk, eyeing him and then the radio when some shitty pop song comes on.

Pete reaches for the dial and puts it on Aerosmith. Patrick relaxes a tiny bit. "Maybe," Pete grins.

Patrick doesn't answer, doesn't even acknowledge what he's said, just idly taps his thigh to the beat of the song and stares out the window. Pete's current apartment isn't far away, just a eight minute drive from where they're at now, but Pete fills it with small talk anyway. Stuff about music and sports, though; nothing about either of their personal lives. Patrick likes Elvis Costello and Tom Waits and he's a full blown music nerd. It's oddly endearing. Pete can't help but smile when he launches into a passionate rant, defending David Bowie's Tonight album. Pete agrees with him aloud (thinks, Tonight was Bowie's worst, what the hell is he talking about in his head), and then it's silent.

"So you're a runaway?" he asks after a moment, and Patrick tenses up.

"So what if I am?"

"You're sixteen, huh?"

Patrick doesn't answer, so Pete assumes he is.

"What're you running from?"

"None of your business," Patrick says, a growl to his voice, so Pete drops it.

They pull up to Pete's living space and Pete parks the car, then grabs what he needs from it and says, "I only have one couch, no bed. You can have it, if you want. I'm okay with the floor."

"Thanks," Patrick says, still sounding stiff. He gets out of the car, a limp apparent in his walk when he tries to go ahead of Pete.

"This way," Pete says, reaching out and touching Patrick's arm to stop him.

Patrick flinches, then turns around and says, "Please don't touch me," his eyes on Pete's, hard but sad. Pete kind of wants to hug him, but that's a definite no-no.

"I'm sorry," Pete says. He leads Patrick to his apartment, fusses with the key and then gets the door open. It's cheap and shitty; a small room, nothing but a bathroom and a kitchen island and a couch by a small TV. There's a bookshelf, too, stacked with movies and CDs and books and notebooks, with some collectible action figures on top. Pete throws his keys down on the table of the bar, then goes into the fridge. "You hungry?"

"Starving, yeah." Patrick takes a seat at the bar, then reaches into his backpack to make sure his knife is where he can reach it - just in case. Pete seems like a nice enough guy, but there are beer bottles laying everywhere, and even more in the fridge, and Patrick's pretty sure that's a bag of nose candy on the couch.

"Microwavable," Pete says brightly, lifting up leftover pasta to show to Patrick. Patrick shrugs and nods, so Pete busies himself with preparing it. He stops once he's got the box open to take his jacket off, and he's got a navy blue t-shirt underneath that lets Patrick see all his tattoos. Patrick tries not to stare, but the black ink against caramel skin is a little distracting.

"So you're not gonna tell me your story?" Pete asks once the thing's cooking, putting his elbows on the counter and staring at Patrick with interest. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"Not interested in hearing yours," Patrick says, honestly, and he feels a little bad when Pete's face falls. "Listen, I appreciate you doing this for me, and not hurting me or anything. I'm grateful because I could definitely be in a much worse place right now if I wasn't here, but please stop trying to get to know me. I'm leaving in the morning, so it's a waste of your time anyway."

Pete pouts a little and turns away. When the microwave beeps, Pete takes out the meal and scoops out half onto a paper plate for Patrick. The food's gross and expired, but Patrick eats like he hasn't in days.

Pete watches him, not touching his own serving, and once Patrick's done, once he's sitting back and eyeing the mini-fridge in hopes that there's something else he can eat, he says, "You haven't eaten in days, huh?" He looks Patrick over, and he's wearing baggy clothes, but he doesn't look remarkably skinny underneath. Pete thinks he might actually be a little chubby under his hoodie and parka and jeans. So his slightly-pudgy cheeks aren't entirely baby fat.

"I've been living off Pay Days, so not really, no," Patrick says, looking around at the apartment. He notices a guitar case propped against the TV that he hadn't seen before, and he gestures to it and says, "You play guitar?"

"It's a bass, but yeah, I can." Pete studies Patrick's face, notes the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. Patrick sniffles a little. Pete takes his empty plate from him, watching him, a little wary. "You want something else?"

"Yes, please, if that's not a problem," Patrick says, and he crosses his arms, like he's suddenly more uncomfortable than he was before. When Pete pushes his own untouched food towards him, he shakes his head. "No, no, that's yours, you eat that-"

"I'm not hungry. I'll just have a beer. You're too young to drink, huh? Or you want one?"

"I'd rather not. Thank you, though." Patrick takes Pete's plate and digs in, and Pete gets up and goes to get himself a drink. A look in the fridge tells him he's got to go food shopping soon, and he scowls a little. He hates going to the grocery store - it gives him anxiety. He's always worried someone's going to recognize him. He's paranoid. Maybe it's the cocaine.

"Can I get any information out of you?" Pete tries one more time, popping the lip off his beer with his key and then sitting across from Patrick.

"You're persistent," Patrick comments, through a mouthful. "That's admirable, but also really annoying." He swallows down what's in his mouth, and Pete watches his throat work, then looks up into his eyes again. Patrick's frowning slightly at him, like he caught him doing that. "Either way, I'm not telling you anything."

"What if I tell you about me?"

"We've gone over this."

"Okay, don't even answer me, don't even pretend to listen, just eat and I'll talk." Patrick's only reply is looking at Pete cynically and stuffing more noodles into his mouth, so Pete takes a drink of his beer and begins. "Right, so I'm Pete, and I steal things. No joke, I'm a thief. Like, seriously. Like Harry and Marv on Home Alone, but I'm a little bit smarter, I like to think." He puts his beer on the counter and taps at his temple as he says that, then grins and lets his hands fall back into his lap. "And I don't have a partner. I work alone. It's lonely, and kind of really shitty, but it's probably what I deserve. And now I'm in too deep. So go to college, kid." Pete laughs a little, and Patrick's looking at him, listening as he chews, and Pete continues. "Everything in this room was stolen, except for you. The car, the fridge, the bass, the books and records, the couch. That couch was a bitch to get here, let me tell you."

Patrick interrupts him, frowning, by saying, "Why are you telling me this? You're not at all worried about me snitching on you or something? Some of this stuff's pretty expensive - you could definitely get in trouble for stealing it."

"But you wouldn't, right? You wouldn't tell on me?" Pete sits back and takes another swig of his beer, staring down Patrick evenly. "I can trust you?"

Patrick shifts like he's been cornered, then squirms a little, face twisting up. His mouth opens and closes a few times, the beginnings of at least four answers dying on his lips. Finally, he says, "You're shoving me between a rock and a hard place, and it's a real dick move on your part."

Pete shrugs, trying to go for indifferent, although he's eating Patrick's little behaviorisms up. If the kid won't verbally and willingly give up a little information about himself, Pete's gonna force it out of him. "Whatever. I could tell on you, too, you know. I'm sure your parents are out there worried sick. I could easily call the cops and they'd take you home."

"Please don't," Patrick says softly, crossing his arms tighter until he's hugging his chest. His voice suddenly sounds choked up and he's got tears in his eyes - shit, Pete hadn't meant to make him cry. "You don't understand the circumstances, I left for my own safety - please don't make me go back."

"No, hey, don't cry. I won't make you go back, I'm sorry, just." Pete has no clue what to do. He's made people cry before, many times, but mostly in situations where he could just get up and leave them alone in their empty rooms, with only the imprint of Pete's body on the bed as a reminder of him being there, and their own eyeliner strained tears and regrets to keep them company. He can't exactly do that with Patrick. Especially when he doesn't even own a bed. "I'm sorry," Pete says, because he has no idea what else to do or say. He can't hug him, and he doesn't know him well enough to offer some emotional support, and that's really not his place anyway. "Please don't cry."

Patrick sniffs and rubs at his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie, not looking at Pete.

"You know what, let's just sleep. It's really late. You can have the couch."

Patrick nods slightly and gets down from the bar stool, setting his backpack down beside the couch - he's had it on his back this entire time - and then pulling off two of his three layers of clothes. He has a David Bowie t-shirt on underneath his two jackets, and Pete finally gets a nice view of pale arms, littered in scar and bruises, and he looks at Pete, like he knows he's staring and he's challenging him to comment. Pete avoids eye contact. He's suddenly got a lot more sympathy for this kid though. Especially when he sees he's got bruises ringing his neck too.

"You wanna brush your teeth or anything? You gotta run the water for a minute because sometimes rust comes out, but it works. I got toothpaste."

Patrick just stares at him, and Pete mentally slaps himself because, duh, brushing his teeth is probably the least of Patrick's worries. And it's not like he has a toothbrush on him, and Pete's only got his own and Patrick's not about to use that, he's sure - Pete's an idiot.

"Nevermind," he mumbles, awkwardly, before going into the bathroom.

Patrick doesn't bother looking around while he's gone; he's already seen everything anyway. He could probably snoop through those four mysterious boxes in the corner, or attempt to get Pete's safe open, but he doesn't. He just turns on Pete's TV and stares at the static, cringing at the loud sound of it. He fumbles with the remote for a minute, then gives up and turns the whole thing off.

Pete comes out of the bathroom just then, in nothing but his boxers, but this time Patrick hardly looks at him. "I don't have cable," Pete says, going into one of those boxes and pulling a thick blanket out. He throws it at Patrick, then bends to pick up the mound of blankets on the floor near the couch, which must be for him. "If you wanna watch a movie, that's fine. I'm gonna try for some shut eye."

"I'm fine, thanks." Patrick brings the blanket to his face and smells it, eyeing Pete. It smells fine - vaguely lavender scented, even. He pulls his jeans down and off, quick while Pete's not looking, then settles down on the couch and pulls the blanket over himself.

Pete putters around for a while, gets himself a drink of water, even paces for a minute, until he finds himself standing over Patrick, watching him. Patrick's asleep by now, probably because he hasn't been in a bed or even a house for days, judging by the greasy state of his hair, and he sleeps like a baby, except his face is all scrunched up and his mouth is pulled down in a little pouty frown. Pete crouches beside him and watches his chest rise and fall - his blanket's wrapped around only his legs now, and he's on his side and shivering like he's cold. Pete pulls the blanket up, then pets Patrick's hair until his pinched expression turns serene. Eventually he lays down on the floor, just a few feet away from the couch, and falls asleep himself.

He sleeps through the whole night somehow, and when he wakes, it's to a damp-headed Patrick standing over him, dripping water onto his face and holding a bowl of cereal in his hands. "Breakfast?" he says, setting it on the floor beside Pete's head. "I took a shower and used your shampoo, I hope you don't mind."

"That's my shirt," Pete says blearily, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes.

Patrick looks down at the Harley Davidson shirt he's got on. It's a little tight around his waist, but it's long on him. It's kind of adorable. "Yeah, that's not a problem, right? My clothes smell terrible and this is the only thing of yours that smells decent and also kind of fits. Um, do you have a washer by chance?"

"Laundromat," Pete says, reaching for the cereal and spooning some into is mouth. "Mondays and Thursdays. Those are the days I go there."

"Ah," Patrick says, going to the couch and taking a seat, crossing his legs and looking intently at Pete as he eats.

"Why are you still here?" Pete asks, and when Patrick looks slightly hurt, he adds, "Not that I mind but, like, I thought you were gonna leave?"

"I figured I owed you. For taking me in, or whatever, even for just a day. I wanted to make a big breakfast, because I can kind of cook, but you don't have any food. So, um, I hope you like cereal."

"If I didn't like it, it wouldn't be in my cupboard," Pete says, and Patrick blinks at him. Pete sighs. "Listen, I don't mind that you're here, stay as long as you want. I'm just a little surprised you're still here. You made it pretty clear you wanted to leave as soon as you woke up."

"Yeah, but then I decided I needed a shower, and then I decided I was gonna milk this. I haven't had it this good in years."

"This isn't good," Pete says, sounding a little bitter and a lot regretful. "This is a shitty way of living."

"For me, it's not," Patrick says, and then he gets up and starts washing the two dishes that are in the sink.

"Okay, kid, I'm tired of this suspense. You keep implying you came from a really shitty place, but when I ask you about it, you get all weird. Please tell me?" Pete gets up and brings his empty bowl, setting it next to the sink and then pulling himself up until he's seated on the counter.

Patrick's face gets hard, and he scrubs the plate he's washing harder. "My dad left when I was a baby and my mom died when I was four, my aunt and uncle adopted me but then they got a divorce and the guy my aunt ended up with was a dickhead who was abusive to both of us. Classic LifeTime trope. Good enough for you?"

"I'm sorry," Pete says, because that's all he can say.

Patrick shrugs. "I got away, didn't I?" The scrunch of his forehead would be cute if it weren't for the pathetic tremble of his chin - that coupled with the sadness in his eyes is just plain heartbreaking. Pete wants to hug him again. That'd still be a bad idea.

"So how long are you staying?" Pete asks instead.

"As long as you'll let me. I don't have anywhere else to go anyway."

"Hmm," Pete says. Looks like he's got a new partner in crime.

"So we need food," Patrick says. "Desperately. How would we go about shopping...?"

Pete shakes his head and reaches for his phone. "I have someone for that."

"What, you run a mafia or something?"

"It's my sister. She goes shopping for me, so nobody recognizes me. I'm kind of a wanted face, can only go out at night. My landlord's got my back, we're cool as long as I keep up with the rent. Ha, but a mafia? That'd be cool."

Patrick takes a seat at the counter and watches Pete as he puts the phone to his ear.

"Yeah, Hillary? Hey, um, so I'm out of food again. Yeah, we're living off cereal. Who's we? Oh, I picked up this kid, he's really cool but he eats a lot." Patrick glares a little, and Pete winks. "Nah, I doubt he's picky. We need more cereal, milk, and beer, the rest is up to you. Oh, and bread, bread is good, for, like, sandwiches as stuff. You want anything, Patrick?"

"Can she get me a chocolate bar?"

Pete snorts, but says, "He wants a chocolate bar. Like, a Hersey bar?" Patrick nods. "Yeah, a Hersey bar. Hell, I want one, too. Also, can you maybe pick up some Taco Bell on the way here? Uh huh, exactly, the usual's good. Patrick, what do you want?"

Patrick looks confused and slightly embarrassed. "I've never, um, I've never eaten there."

Pete stares at him, then shrugs. "Yeah, it's tacos and burritos and shit. Just get him, like, a quesadilla or something. I don't know. Alright, yeah, that's all, thanks, sissy. Love you." Pete hangs up and grins at Patrick. "Okay, so how the fuck have you never been to Taco Bell?"

Patrick shrugs his shoulders, pulling his hat down over his eyes. "Never really got out of the house."

"Oh." Pete stares at him, then down at his phone. "So what's with you and hats?"

"I dunno," Patrick mumbles, all shifty eyes and pouty lips. "I just wear them. They're the one constant in my life."

Pete nods. "That makes sense."

"Yeah."

It's quiet. Something in the wall softly buzzes; neither of them are sure what it is, but they don't pay it much attention.

"When's your sister gonna show up?"

"Sometime in the next few hours, I'm sure."

Patrick nods.

They watch Dead Poets Society, which Pete's seen a thousand times but Patrick obviously never has. Pete spends most of the two hours watching Patrick watch the TV screen. He's got a really nice face; triangular little nose, the slope of it oddly endearing (Pete wants to boop it, wants to see if Patrick grins shyly or frowns disapprovingly when he does), pouty bottom lip and bowed top lip, great jaw, not too sharp because he's a bit pudgy, but defined anyway. He's still got a hat on, the same lame blue and white trucker cap he'd been wearing when Pete picked him up last night, but it's pushed up on his forehead now and sweaty golden red curls are showing. It's really hot in the room; his face is pink, too, and he's absently holding his shirt away from his body because it's probably sticking to his skin.

And his eyes - golden lashes to compliment aquamarine seas. Pete's a poetic nerd with a crush, he knows; he's a poet that never made it, but he's pretty sure Patrick's the best poem he never wrote.

The movie ends, and Patrick stares at the credits a moment, then looks at Pete. "Wow."

"Yeah, wow. It's great, huh? I love that movie."

"Yeah," Patrick says. He gets up and goes to look over Pete's movie collection. It's small, only ten or so films - just his absolute favorites, that's all he has room for. Patrick lifts up The Nightmare Before Christmas, grinning. "Really?"

"I love that movie," Pete says again. He twists his arm, showing Patrick his Jack Skellington tattoo. Patrick walks over with the movie, eyeing the tattoo.

"How many do you have?" Patrick asks, poking at the keyhole tat.

"A bunch," Pete grins, standing up and tugging his shirt off. "This one's my favorite," he says, pointing at one just below his naval.

"What is it?" Patrick asks, squinting a little and bending to peer at it.

"A bartskull. My friend and I made it up a few years back. It's cool, right?" Pete pulls his pants down a centimeter to let Patrick see the bottom of the design, and of course Hillary walks in at that moment and stops to raise her eyebrows at them. "I'm showing him my tattoo, not my dick," Pete says when she opens her mouth, rolling his eyes.

"I'm going to pretend like I believe that," she says, shoving the Taco Bell bag at Pete and then going to the kitchen with the groceries. "Got you a generic brand of Fruit Loops because it tastes the same but it's two dollars less and it's a bigger box. Hope you don't mind."

"Whatever," Pete says, licking his lips and pulling out the food from the bag. He shoves a taco at Patrick. "Taco," he says slowly, then rubs his stomach. "Yummy. Eat."

"Shut up," Patrick says, unwrapping the taco slowly. He takes a bite, watching Pete take out a tostada for himself. He chews for a moment, looking contemplative, then swallows and looks at Pete. "Not bad," he says.

Pete grins and nods at him, then takes a bite of his tostada. Crumbs go flying; from the bar, Hillary says, "Messy, Pete, eat over the wrapper," but Pete ignores her.

"I don't date people because I'm married to Taco Bell and I don't believe in infidelity," Pete tells Patrick, who laughs nervously after a moment.

"So who're you?" Hillary asks, coming over to sit on the ground and looking up at Patrick. She looks like Pete, but with less teeth, and she's bit more feminine, of course. She's pretty, even with less eyeliner on than her brother. Pete's parents make good looking kids.

"Patrick," he says through a mouthful of taco.

She blinks at him.

"I found him on the street," Pete grins, licking at his fingers. "He's sixteen. A runaway. I'm a family-owned orphanage. Ma and Pop, but without the Ma."

Hillary looks at him sharply, eyes flickering to Patrick because she knows he's probably got a dark past, but he's too absorbed in his food; he probably hadn't even heard Pete.

"What are you going to do with him?" she asks Pete, watching Patrick eye Pete's tostada once he's finished the taco. It's like he's never had food before, she thinks.

Pete hands Patrick another taco, and Patrick looks at the tostada sadly one last time, then gets to polishing off his second taco. "I'm gonna keep him," Pete tells Hillary. Her eyebrows shoot up, and Patrick looks up at him. "For as long as he lets me," Pete adds.

"Damn right," Patrick mumbles through a mouthful.

"Pete?" Hillary says after a moment, poking at his leg, "Pete, can we talk privately for a sec?"

"Sure," Pete says, standing up to follow her out the front door. "Be right back, Patrick."

"Okay," Patrick says.

Hillary closes the door, then crosses her arms and stares Pete down. Pete hates that they're the same height.

"What?" he asks, taking a bite of his food.

Hillary snatches it out of his hand and stares him down. "He's sixteen. Don't play innocent, Pete, I know he's gonna end up in your bed by next week."

"I don't have a bed, so that's kind of not possible."

"You know what I mean. Pete, I'm serious, leave him alone."

"Why do you think I'm gonna fuck everything I take home? That dog you wouldn't let me save, like two years ago, did you think I was gonna fuck it, too?"

"No, but I figured it was better off on the streets than with you. You can barely take care of yourself." Pete huffs and looks out at the street, and Hillary touches his arm. "Pete. Look at me." He does, reluctantly, and she says, "You need to get yourself out of here. Your lifestyle clearly isn't working. You need to get yourself a good job, buy yourself a nice apartment, not this trashy place, and settle down with a nice girl and have little demon Pete babies. Patrick seems nice enough, but you can't do that with him here. You're only complicating your life."

"You sound like Mom."

"Yeah, I do, because I agree with Mom. Everyone agrees with Mom. You need to fix this, Pete, this isn't a way to live."

Pete crosses his arms across his chest. "Stop telling me what to do. I'm a big boy now."

"Yeah, but you're going to end up in jail. Pete," she says sharply.

"Fine, okay, God, I'll try to find a job."

"That's it," Hillary says, smiling and giving him a pat on the back.

"But I'm not kicking Patrick out 'till he's ready to leave."

"If you start getting good money and he stays because of that, and you let him, I'll be upset."

"He's not a gold digger. I met him yesterday. If he was a gold digger, he wouldn't be here right now. There's no gold to dig." Hillary gives Pete a level look, and Pete sighs. "He's just a kid I saved from the crazy pedo crack heads of Chicago, it's not a big deal."

"You're a crazy pedo crack head," Hillary says sharply.

Pete grits his teeth. "That was a brief thing, I'm not and never was a crack head, I just tried it once or twice."

"You've had this apartment for three months and I see it on your carpet. You're not fooling anyone." She's angry now, her voice high and her finger prodding Pete accusingly in the chest.

"Jesus Christ, okay, you got me food, I'll pay you and then leave, please, because I didn't invite you over to scold me." Pete's voice has risen a little, shriller than hers is.

"Pete, I know you pay me, but it's my responsibility to take care of you, and this is a disaster waiting to happen."

The door suddenly opens, and Patrick's peeking out, looking sheepish. "Um, is everything okay? There was yelling."

"It's fine," Pete says, shooting a glance at his sister. He stalks past a surprised Patrick, carelessly opens his safe even though they can all see the combination, then grabs at the receipt from the groceries that's sitting on the table. He pulls a chunk of money from the safe, counts it out quickly, then returns to the door and shoves it at Hillary. "One hundred eighty seven dollars, eighty seven for the food and another hundred for gas and your trouble or whatever."

Hillary takes it, looks down at it, then sighs and looks back at Pete. "Pete-"

"Bye," Pete says shortly, closing the door on her. He turns to look at a stunned Patrick, and says, "She takes care of me and does stuff for me, but every fucking time she ends up scolding me, I swear." He huffs angrily, then takes a seat on the couch and reaches for one of the two soda cups Hillary brought. He brings the straw to his lips, takes a drink, then slams it down. "Goddamnit, I fucking hate my family. I mean, I love them, I love them a ton, but they're always on my ass, it's so annoying."

"You're kind of a criminal," Patrick says slowly, taking a seat beside him. Pete glares at him, but Patrick's focused on his hands in his lap. "I get why they worry about you. It's a dangerous lifestyle."

"All I do is sit here, and I occasionally break into a house and steal some jewelry. Not a big deal."

"Not a big deal my ass," Patrick mutters.

Pete purses his lips and shakes his foot, antsy and irritable. "You wanna, like. You wanna go shopping? At the mall?"

"You can afford to?"

"As long as you're not spending thousands of bucks on, like, Giorgio Armani or some shit."

"Who's that?"

"It's like, he's like a fashion designer. Really fancy, expensive shit. We're talking three thousand dollar purses."

"I don't do purses."

"I feel like you're a fanny pack kind of guy," Pete says with a grin.

"Maybe," Patrick says, smiling back at him.

* * *

( **Some clarification - this was around the time when hurt/comfort fics were uber popular (they still might be, I don't read fic much anymore so I dunno) and when a lot of people (myself, vaguely included) were into, like, kidnapping/criminal kinda... shit.** **I was personally obsessed with, like, dark subject matter - abuse, drug addiction, etc, and this fic was one of my first attempts to write a dark fic. I'm still interested in that sorta thing, but now acknowledge like... it needs to be done tastefully. This fic, for example - me writing Patrick as an underage abuse victim who's "saved" by fuckin'... ephebephile coke addict thief Pete - that'd never fly now, and I could never write anything remotely similar now. I'm saying this because I think the development of what's "acceptable" in fic has changed, which is interesting, and I also am proud of myself for maturing. I dunno. On with my shitty problematic fic, so I can post it here and delete it from my drafts, where it will remain on the internet forever.)**

* * *

They have fun at the mall. Pete mostly watches Patrick; the way he closes his eyes and smiles when he smells the food court, and the joy in his eyes when he sees a Guitar Center. Pete lets him go into it, and he spends two hours fooling around with the various instruments.

Eventually they get to shopping for Patrick, who's in desperate need of some clothes. Pete had given him one of his baggier hoodies to put on over his shirt that Patrick was wearing, and he had on the pair of jeans he'd come in. They left the store after a while, empty handed - Pete had kind of whistled at a woman as she walked out in a mini skirt and crop top, and he'd been kicked out of the store for harassing a costumer. Patrick, of course, had to go with him.

They got home eventually,

( **QUIT WRITING HERE CUZ I'M LAME next bit is like..... i think, a few days later?? Not too long.)**

* * *

Patrick's smiling, beaming in fact, and Pete can't help it; he leans in and kisses him. He feels Patrick's stop smiling immediately, and then he's shoving Pete away and turning away.

"I'm sorry," Pete calls after him, but Patrick goes and walks into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Pete putters around his apartment for ten minutes, and then just sits on the couch and stares at the wall, but after two minutes he gets antsy and goes to sit with his back against the bathroom door. "Patrick?"

"Leave me alone." Patrick's voice sounds choked up, like he's been crying.

"I didn't - I shouldn't have done that, that wasn't my place. I'm sorry."

Patrick's silent, and then he says, "I'm gonna come out now."

"Okay," Pete answers, getting up and standing, facing the door.

Patrick comes out, wiping at his eyes with the sleeves of Pete's hoodie. Pete reaches for him, and he snaps, "Don't touch me. Please don't touch me."

Pete's suddenly terrified - he's pretty sure he's triggered Patrick, or something. He's obviously done something to him.

"Don't ever kiss me," Patrick says, rubbing at his running nose. "Please."

"I'm sorry. I won't again,"

**(Blegh..... gross. I wrote myself notes on what I wanted to happen next... they're cringey, but, basically, I wanted them to eventually work their way towards being lovers 'cause of Patrick's hesitance. 'Cause of my obsession with smut, lmao.)**

 

* * *

"Hey," Patrick says quietly.

"Hmm?" Pete mumbles, because he's nearly asleep.

Patrick sounds awake enough. "I'm gonna pay you back one day."

"What?"

"I'm gonna pay you back. Because you've given me so much."

"Pay me back with what?"

"Money. I'll give you money, and I'll buy you a nice house, and if anyone busts you for anything you've done in the past, I'll bail you out, and I'll buy your sister a house for everything she's ever done for us, and I-"

"Where the hell are you gonna get that kind of money from?"

"I'm gonna go to LA. That was my goal when I left my aunt's house, and it's my goal now."

"What are you gonna do in LA?"

"Do music. I wanna do music, more than anything."

* * *

**(Okay, h u g e time-skip, there was supposed to be a lot here, but I skipped... essentially, Patrick eventually takes off to LA, leaving Pete behind - good riddance, tbfh. Pete gets himself a job, and life goes on, they see other people but still love each other... and a few years later, Patrick's blown up and he starts talking to Pete again, so this is... a small piece of that.)**

_I keep hearing myself on the radio,_ the email says.

Pete goes outside and sits in his car, turning on the radio and listening for a while. After maybe three songs, and a dozen commercials, Patrick's voice comes on, singing something poppy and catchy and not Pete's taste at all, but it's Patrick, so it makes him smile nonetheless.

He goes back in once it's over, sits down and types, _i've heard it. awesome, dude._

**(I actually really like that. I think that's super Pete, haha. I actually got his character right, if only for three paragraphs, lmfao.)**

* * *

**(This was gonna be the epilogue.)**

Pete slips through the crowd, pushing his way up to the front and ignoring the teenage girls who bitch at him when he shoves passed them. He settles against the barrier, peering up at the stage. The opening band is playing, some dorky kids with bad hair and a random exclamation point in their name, and they're kind of good - Pete decides he's going to look them up once this is over, but for now, he's here for Patrick.

Patrick comes out after a half hour, in a grey sweater vest, a newsboy cap, and infuriatingly tight jeans. He's got a guitar with him, and he goes up to the microphone and fusses with the knobs for a minute. Then he looks up and sheepishly says, "Hi." The crowd screams, and his eyes widen a little. He laughs a tiny bit, and Pete's heart aches at the sight of his smile. "Wow, you guys are super into this. That's cool. Um, okay, here's a song."

He turns and tells something to his band, and then the drummer counts them in the song starts up. It's upbeat and happy, but a closer listen to the lyrics reminds Pete of Patrick's darker past. The next song is about alcoholism.. Pete vaguely wonders who it's about. He thinks he knows.

A few songs in and Patrick's band leaves the stage, and a tech runs out with a chair. Patrick takes a seat and pulls the microphone down to his height, then looks out at the crowd. Pete knows he doesn't have the best vision, and he probably can't see passed the first two rows.

"This song is, um." Patrick chews on his lip, strums his guitar absently. He smiles ruefully. "I hope none of you are homophobic, because this song's about a man I loved. I'm not gonna lie about that."

Patrick starts in on the song, his voice choked with emotion and his expression pained, and halfway through the second verse he opens his eyes and they land on Pete, and he stops. There's silence; the crowd had been quiet already, silently waving their cell phones back and forth, but now it's totally quiet. Then Patrick smiles huge, putting his guitar down on the crowd and jumping down into the crowd. The security guards shout and reach for him, and the fans around Pete start screeching and grabbing at him, but Patrick jumps into Pete's arms, kissing him hard and then hugging him and tearfully rambling in his ear: "Pete, oh my God, you don't know how much I missed you, oh my God."

"Get off," Pete tells a fourteen year old who reaches for Patrick's ass, slapping at her hand, and she pouts at him. He bares his teeth and growls at her. "Mine." Patrick pulls away and looks at him strangely, and Pete shakes his head and whispers, "I missed you too, 'Trick", and kisses him again.

"Um," a young security guard says from behind them, "you kind of just stopped the concert, Mr. Stump, are you-"

"Yeah, yes, I'm sorry," Patrick says, and he lets go of Pete, but twines their fingers together and leads him up to the stage. Pete mounts it, then turns at the hundreds of gawking fans. Half of them are filming. He tries not to let their accusing eyes get to him. "This is who that songs about," Patrick says into the mic, wiping at his tears with his free hand. "This guy saved my life, I love him so much - but you guys came for a concert, huh? I'm sorry, give us a minute, I'll get Scoota out here for you guys."

Some people boo, but a lot of them cheer, and someone yells, "Take as long as you need!" and a bunch of people say, "Yeah!" in response.

Patrick pulls Pete backstage, then tells his confused band, "My long lost boyfriend showed up - Scoota, can you do your solo now?"

Scoota nods and grabs his sticks, clapping Patrick on the back on his way out, and Patrick leads Pete back into his dressing room, then locks the door and shoves him up against the wall. "Where the fuck have you been?" he says, cupping Pete's face and leaving kisses everywhere, against his jaw and along his cheek and on his mouth, lips as soft and lush under Pete's as he remembers. "I've fucking missed you, asshole, why'd you leave me like that?"

**(Omitting three lines here because I got fucked up on continuity plus there's some uhhhh cringe stuff related to Patrick's weight loss that I just. Don't even wanna try to make readable so. Gah.)**

Patrick's running his hands along Pete's chest, touching his face, breathing him in. He pulls away and smiles against his lips. "My God, I've missed you. As soon as the show's over, you're making love to me against this wall."

"I'm not opposed to that," Pete says, and Patrick grins and kisses him one last time before stepping back and looking at him.

"You look good," he says, reaching out and touching running his fingers down his arm, along the ink on his skin. "These are new?"

"Uh huh." Pete cups Patrick's ass with both hands, pulling him closer and then sliding his hands up his back. "I love you."

His hands make their way up to Patrick's face, and he touches his cheek. Patrick closes his eyes and smiles. "I love you, too."

Pete's hands fall down again, and he rests them on Patrick's hips. "So. How've you been?"

"Being a celebrity is hard," Patrick says. "No, it's exhausting. And surprisingly lonely."

"You haven't hooked up with any hot, closeted actors yet?" Pete says, grinning slightly.

"I got really drunk and fucked one - you wouldn't believe who, oh my God-"

There's suddenly someone knocking on the door, and a voice calls, "Patrick? Hey, I know you're probably having aggressive reunion sex right now, but we kind of need you now. Scoota's done playing."

* * *

**(AND OFC SOME OBLIGATORY ENDING SMUT BC OFC)**

"Stay with me," Patrick begs, arching up and gasping into Pete's mouth. "Please - fuck, there, yeah - Pete, please."

"I will," Pete promises, hitching Patrick's legs up and giving him all he's got. Patrick falls apart underneath him, and Pete picks up the pieces this time.

Once it's over and they've both come, Patrick's giggling and looking drowsy, the prettiest thing Pete's seen in a long time sprawled beneath him, and his tie is loose around his neck and his shirt is opened at the third button and his blonde hair is a mess. Pete doesn't have the energy to move; he just stays there, posed above Patrick, watching his chest rise and fall.

"Love you so much," he whispers, bending to say it into Patrick's ear.

Patrick smiles and tilts his head to catch Pete's lips. "Love you, too."

"So I found a job here," Pete says once they've broken apart and he's cuddled up beside Patrick. "A good, steady one. I'm thinking of moving out here."

Patrick turns to look at him, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Really," Pete says, twining their legs together and then their fingers.


End file.
